Reunion
by 1note
Summary: Ten years later, Daniel Dreiberg glimpses a ghost. Takes place after "Homecoming." Rated T, because I figure better safe than sorry.
1. He Sees the Ghost

**A/N:** Well, here we are again. Yet another Walter/Chloe Watchmen fic from yours truly. Seems like every time I think I'm done with these characters something else pops into my imagination. This one is in fact due to a couple of reviews and messages I got (sorry, I forgot the names) mentioning they'd like to see Nite Owl make a reappearance. I have taken the suggestion under consideration and have come up with the following. So, without further ado…

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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November 1, 1995

Ten years since the carefully orchestrated attack wiped fifteen million people around the world off the face of the earth. Ten years since Nite Owl and Rorschach failed to save them, and Nite Owl failed to save Rorschach. The crater still existed, filled with water to create a massive lake with an artificial island at its very center, like a huge bullseye. All Souls Lake, it was named, although the attack occurred just after midnight on November 2nd, _after_ All Soul's Day. The artificial island boasted a large museum and a wall that wrapped around the island's circumference. Made of gleaming black marble, the wall's entire surface, inside and out, bore the names of the three million souls lost in New York on that terrible day, an elegantly simple monument. It was completed just in time for the attack's tenth anniversary.

"You sure you wanna be here?" Laurie asked with a concerned expression.

Daniel squeezed his wife's hand. "I _need _to be here. I worked hard to see his name put on the wall. Least I can do is go to see it with my own eyes, pay my respects." A faint tremor in his voice betrayed his deep-seated anguish. He still had nightmares of that horrible moment when Jon's outstretched hand ended the life of Nite Owl's former partner; still saw Rorschach's agonized, tear-stained face and heard his final, tortured words: _DO IT!_ It wasn't easy, campaigning for the lost vigilante's name to be added to the list of New York's casualties, especially since Daniel had to conduct it all anonymously, but in the end he succeeded. In a sense, Rorschach was the last victim in Veidt's twisted "practical joke."

Daniel and Laurie boarded the ferry, two anonymous faces lost in the crowd headed to the historic dedication ceremony. Former President Nixon himself would be there along with current President Bush and, unfortunately, Adrian Veidt. Daniel could only hope he would be able to restrain himself when he saw that bastard on the dais.

The ferry was full to capacity, standing room only. It was so crowded, in fact, the incognito couple remained ignorant of the fact that they shared the boat with a ghost.

The ferry's PA crackled as the captain broadcast the announcement that they were minutes from their destination. Everyone must prepare to debark. Daniel and Laurie turned towards the vessel's bow to gaze upon the artificial island that rose from the grey water as a shallow dome of soil and stone. The museum loomed from its center like a glass and steel castle, the memorial wall a black moat, stark and beautiful. When he and his wife finally descended the gangplank and set foot upon the island's gritty surface, Daniel couldn't help but feel like he was walking on someone's grave. In a way, he supposed, he was.

The dedication ceremony was as long and tedious as everyone expected. President Nixon spoke first, a rambling monologue on the trials of rebuilding, the suffering of the hundreds of thousands who found themselves without homes or families, the generosity of great philanthropists such as Adrian Veidt, and the unified strength of the American people. President Bush talked of the continued worldwide peace which arose from their shared tragedy, the prosperity they all now enjoyed, the sense of purpose shared around the world to live life to the fullest to honor those whose lives were lost. Then Adrian Veidt took the podium. He spoke at length on the resilience of the human spirit, how much good could arise from even the direst tragedy, how the great superpowers set aside their nuclear weapons and mutual suspicion to unite and create a utopia. The massive audience applauded loudest for him, save those rare individuals who knew the truth and glowered in bilious anger. Afterwards, the three powerful men gripped the absurdly oversized golden shears and together snipped through the broad red ribbon. The museum was now open to the public.

"Wanna go to the wall first?" Laurie asked.

Daniel shook his head. "Think I need to work up the nerve. Let's check out the museum."

"'Kay." She linked her arm with his as they stepped through the wide entryway.

Daniel had to admit the museum was impressive. There were enlarged photographs of the city, both before and after the attack, as well as artifacts and videos of the weeks leading up to the tragic event. He paused in front of a particularly large display; a section of wall taken from a building that once stood at the very edge of the crater and was since demolished. The plaque in front of the glass barrier stated the building functioned as a free clinic at the time. Spray painted across the dirty brick façade in jagged black letters were the words: THE END IS HERE. There was also a grainy photo of an apparently homeless man holding up a sign: THE END IS NIGH. One of the few known pictures of Walter Kovacs taken before his capture, apparently enlarged from a tourist's photo that accidentally caught the vigilante as he strode by. A handful of people speculated he might've painted those words on the wall, which would mean the vigilante _wasn't_ killed in the attack. They were half right, Daniel knew. Rorschach didn't die in New York.

Beside him, Laurie stared at the unfocused image of her husband's former crime-fighting partner with mixed emotions. She never liked Rorschach, thought he was creepy and way too unbalanced, but a small part of her couldn't help but respect the fact that he stuck to his principles to the bitter end, even at the cost of his life. Rorschach refused to compromise with Veidt, unlike the others. _Even in the face of Armageddon._ There were times Laurie wondered if he hadn't been right, if keeping silent about the truth was the worst thing she and Daniel ever did, even though the world was better off than it was before when nuclear war seemed all but certain. At least Rorschach didn't have to deal with the guilt, or the nightmares.

A slight tug on her arm distracted Laurie from her reverie. "C'mon," said Daniel and led her out of the museum. They wandered the length of the encircling wall.

"Know where it is?" she asked.

"Kind of." Daniel peered at the rows and rows of white letters on black marble. After a few minutes he stopped and pointed. "There."

WALTER JOSEPH KOVACS. It was weird seeing that name there, etched forever in stone. Somehow, it made his death seem all the more real. Daniel's fingertip traced each white letter. A lump formed in his throat. _Rest in peace, Rorschach._ He turned his shining eyes to his wife. Laurie put her arms around him in a comforting embrace. She might not understand her husband's friendship with that disturbing man, but she could sympathize with his sadness. Could hold him while his tears soaked the shoulder of her blouse, like so many times before.

"I'd give anything to change what happened," Daniel whispered hoarsely.

"I know."

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Later, on the ferry once again, Daniel stared out over the grey water with troubled eyes and wondered, not for the first time, what he could have done differently to change the outcome of that tragic day. But no solution ever came to mind.

The ferry approached the dock. Daniel turned away from the rail…and froze. _No, it couldn't--_

The crowd of passengers jostled their way down the broad gangplank. Near the front edge of the group was the slight figure of a man with red hair turning grey at the temples. Daniel's hand shot out and gripped his startled wife's wrist.

"What?" Laurie frowned at her husband's strange behavior.

Daniel pointed frantically with his other hand. "Look!"

Laurie looked in the direction he pointed, but didn't see what could be getting him so excited. "What's wrong?"

Instead of explaining, Daniel elbowed his way through the milling passengers, towing his confused wife behind him. His less than polite negotiation earned him more than a few dirty looks and angry growls, but he ignored them all, intent on not losing sight of the man far ahead. Once ashore, Daniel all but ran after the retreating figure.

"Slow down!" Laurie protested, "I'm wearing heels!"

"Can't. He's getting away."

"Who?"

His quarry headed for the parking lot. Daniel hustled after him. Laurie stumbled, almost fell, forcing her husband to jerk to a halt. "What's wrong?"

"My shoe fell off," she snapped and jerked her arm free to limp back to the fallen footwear. Daniel waited impatiently for her to wriggle her foot back into the shoe. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he hurried off. "Hey!" Laurie shouted after her husband's retreating back.

Daniel broke into an all-out run. _C'mon, c'mon. Where is he? Dammit, I lost sight of him. Which way?_ His frantic eyes scanned the full parking lot in search of a glimpse of red hair. _I know I saw him. It couldn't have been my imagination…_There! He caught sight of his quarry just as the man disappeared into the passenger side of a modest blue compact car, the back of a woman's head visible in the driver's seat. The engine started with a muted hum.

"Ruh--" Daniel caught himself, "Walter!"

The car backed out of its parking spot, turned at the exit. Daniel stumbled to a halt as he watched the vehicle disappear into the flow of city traffic. Dammit! He fumbled for a pen, scribbled a row of numbers onto his hand. Laurie stumbled up to him and punched him hard in the shoulder. "What the hell was all that about?"

"It was him."

"_Who?"_ Laurie threw up her hands in exasperation.

Daniel took her arm and led her to an out-of-the way corner. He leaned in close, spoke to her in a low voice, "Rorschach."

She stared at him. "Have you lost it?"

"I swear to god, it was him!"

"You saw his face?"

"Well," he hesitated, "Not exactly. But I'd know that walk of his anywhere."

Laurie sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Honey, I'm trying to be understanding here, but--"

"I got his license number." Daniel held up his hand with its messy scrawl of ink. "We can find out where he lives."

"He doesn't live anywhere, Dan!" she snapped, "He's _dead_. You _saw _him die. You showed me where it happened. There was blood, remember?"

Daniel hesitated. "M-maybe Jon only _pretended_ to kill him." It sounded weak, even to him.

Laurie struggled not to roll her eyes. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"I don't know! I only know what I just saw, and what I saw was Rorschach." He stared at his wife with unsettling intensity. "I have to know if it's real, Laurie. If I try to walk away I'll go nuts from not knowing. Can you understand that?"

She sighed. "Yeah. I guess I can." _Doesn't mean I have to like it._

"Are you with me on this?"

"You know I am."

"Okay." Daniel hugged her, grateful for her support in spite of her obvious disbelief. "We'll get the address for the car's registration, then go and see for ourselves how crazy I really am."


	2. Saying Goodbye

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Walter Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach, stood against the portside rail and gazed out on the unnatural lake. It wasn't easy, this decision to return to the city he abandoned so long ago. The horrors he'd endured not just the night of the attack, but all the long years he'd spent as Rorschach, still haunted him. All too many nights were spent wandering the quiet house, unable or unwilling to sleep. He didn't want to face those memories, didn't want to admit how strong they remained, but Chloe knew. She was the one who convinced the former vigilante to attend this dedication, regardless of Veidt's involvement and undoubted presence. Walter needed to be there, to confront this, his greatest failure. He needed to find a way to let it go, and he couldn't do that in Jubilation. It had to be here, at Ground Zero. Still, he'd been reluctant to leave, if only because it meant missing Halloween with his daughter for the first time in her short life.

The memory of their conversation lingered in his mind. He and his daughter sat together on her bed, where all their serious private talks seemed to take place. Danielle had gazed at him with her solemn blue eyes while Walter struggled to find the words to explain why he had to leave. But then the girl surprised him.

"Dad, it's okay. Really." She smiled at him with only the faintest hint of disappointment.

"Are you sure?" Walter pressed.

Danielle pursed her lips, young brow furrowed with concern. The expression was so like her mother's. Then she told him something he never expected to hear. "Dad…I hear you walk around late at night. Sometimes," she hesitated, unable to look her father in the eye, "I pretend t' sleep when you come into my room and watch me. I hear you cry sometimes, real quiet. I know you try an' act like everything's okay so I won't worry, but I do."

Walter swallowed around the tightness in his throat. He'd tried so hard to shield his daughter from his troubled past. She knew some things, of course, such as the fact that he lived under an assumed name. But he thought he'd managed to conceal the fact that the memories of that awful day still haunted his dreams. He should've known better; there were no secrets in a house as small as theirs, in a town as small as Jubilation.

"Will going to New York help you?" Danielle asked, voice small and uncertain.

"Maybe." In truth, he didn't know. But he had to be there all the same.

Danielle lunged forward, wrapped her thin arms around her father's neck. His own arms went around his daughter, startled and deeply touched by her spontaneous affection. "I want you t'be okay, Daddy. I don't want you t'be sad anymore."

Walter smiled and planted a kiss atop her head. "I'm never sad with you."

"Bring me back a present?"

He chuckled softly. "Alright."

An arm slid around his own, as casual and natural a gesture as breathing. Walter shook himself from his reverie, turned his gaze to the woman at his side and smiled, grateful for her presence. "It was my home, too," Chloe said when she told him she'd go with him. The couple leaned against each other, lost in their troubled thoughts yet drawing strength from each other's presence.

The dedication ceremony was hellishly long, not to mention risky as there was a chance, however unlikely, that Veidt might catch a glimpse of his supposedly dead adversary. But that didn't happen. Once the ribbon was cut Adrian Veidt made a discreet exit (if such a thing was possible with a private helicopter). Walter sighed, relieved by the man's absence. Seeing him up on that podium brought the old anger surging into him, undiminished by the passage of time. Only Chloe's steady grip on his arm prevented him from bullying his way through the audience to confront the monster responsible for this tragedy. _It's not just me anymore_, he reminded himself, _I have to think of my family._ So he did nothing. He looked at his wife and gave her hand on his arm a reassuring squeeze. She smiled in obvious relief.

Without a word, Walter and Chloe turned away from the museum's open doors and headed for the wall. They were not alone in this; nearly half of the dedication's attendees wished to view the names of their friends and loved ones before heading indoors. The sky was overcast, which suited the somber mood. Chloe freed her arm from her husband's. "Gonna be okay on your own?" she asked, trying to conceal how anxious she was to find out the fate of the handful of friends she'd made during her years in the city.

Walter nodded. "Go ahead." In truth, he wanted to do his own searching alone. The two of them separated with the quiet promise of reuniting later. Walter made his way slowly down the length of the black wall, blue eyes scanning the names etched in white. So many names. ENNIS CORDRY, ELLEN MCBRIDE, CHARLES & BRENDA SILVIO, BERNARD STANWICK… Walter paused; could that be one of the Bernards he saw each day at the newsstand? Was it Old Bernard, who owned the tiny business, or Young Bernard, who sat against the hydrant and read those foolish comic books? He never learned their last names.

"Would you care to place a rose beside someone's name?"

The voice startled him from his troubled brooding. Walter spun to find a middle-aged Asian woman holding a basket of roses, each stem tied with a length of red, white, and blue colored ribbon. The woman smiled, but her almond eyes contained a great deal of sorrow. Did she lose someone in this flooded crater?

"How much are they?" Walter asked.

"They're free." The woman lifted a rose from her basket and offered it to him. Walter took the proffered bloom. There was an adhesive square attached to the back of the ribbon's knot. He peeled the paper backing away, stuck the flower beside the name of Bernard Stanwick.

"A friend?" the woman asked.

Walter thought about the old newsie, how at times he enjoyed messing with the poor guy's head. He remembered once, after walking away, sneaking up on him again to tap him on the shoulder causing Bernard to spray a mouthful of coffee all over a stack of magazines. It was one of the rare moments when Walter had to fight the impulse to laugh out loud. He smiled at the memory, shook his head. "Not really. But I liked him."

The woman nodded in understanding, then moved on to offer roses to other mourners. More than a few people wept openly when they found the names of people they once knew. Friends, loved ones, enemies, it didn't seem to matter which. Only the loss of them mattered.

Walter continued to wander down the seemingly endless list, uncertain what he searched for, but unwilling to walk away. STEVEN FINE, the detective who captured Rorschach. MALCOLM LONG, the prison shrink who tried to analyze him, only to find his own perceptions of humanity shattered by Rorschach's cold words. Walter suddenly froze as another group of names appeared: DOLORES SHAIRP, and beneath her ANDREW SHAIRP, DARRYL SHAIRP, MELISSA SHAIRP, ROBERT SHAIRP, and SARAH SHAIRP. His landlady and her five children. Walter knew they probably hadn't survived, but until this moment he wasn't _positive_. And as long as he wasn't positive, there'd still been a chance…

He remembered the last time he saw them, how he'd confronted his landlady about the lies she told to the media after his capture. The look in her children's eyes when Walter called her a whore. Walter turned away, vision blurring, more deeply affected than he ever expected to be. Mrs. Shairp's death meant little to him, but those kids…they didn't deserve that. Any of it. Being born to a neglectful mother, living in squalor, dying needlessly. Walter closed his eyes and sighed as he struggled to maintain his composure. The last thing he wanted was to break down in front of all these strangers, even though plenty of other people did so. He would save his tears for later, with Chloe to comfort him as only she could. Walter opened his eyes, now calm, and walked away from the long, tragic list.

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MARIA DELGADO, MORGAN HODGES, MATTHEW PARSON. Each name Chloe found brought a tightness to her throat and a sting to her eyes. All her friends from the clinic where she'd worked, all gone. Chloe placed a rose beside each one. Only a single bloom remained in her hand as her blurry gaze roamed over the cold white letters. One name left, but she couldn't seem to find--

"Chloe?"

She whirled, startled, and discovered a familiar face behind her. Both women's eyes widened in disbelief. _"Rachel?"_

The younger woman's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my god! It _is_ you!"

Chloe laughed and rushed forward to embrace her friend. "I thought you were--"

"I thought _you_ were--"

They parted from their hug to look at each other, grinning like fools while passersby glowered or smiled in envious understanding. Rachel sported a few worry lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a little more weight around the hips and stomach. Her hair, once long enough to tie back in a ponytail, was now cut boyishly short. Chloe shook her head in amazement. "I can't believe it. How did you…?"

Rachel's smile faded. "I was sick that day. Food poisoning. Couldn't keep anything down."

Chloe gripped the younger woman's shoulders. "I'm glad you made it. It's so good to see you."

Rachel sniffed, wiped her eyes, and managed a weak smile. "Yeah. I'm glad to see you, too. Christ," she laughed, "We've got so much catching up to do! I can't even guess where to start."

"I can." Chloe held up her left hand, silver ring winking in the light. Rachel gasped, "You got married! To who? What's his name?"

Chloe hesitated for the briefest instant. "Hiram Charleson. He grew up in my aunt Elsie's hometown, Jubilation. And we have a daughter."

"That's great! Are they here?"

"Um, my husband is." Worry crept in. Should Chloe introduce them? Would Rachel remember Walter from when he posed as a street person? The problem was taken out of her hands when the familiar redhead emerged from the crowd and approached. He hesitated when he saw the other woman. Did he recognize her?

Chloe reached out to grip his hand. "Hiram, this is Rachel. We used to work together at the free clinic. Rache, this is Hiram."

The two shook hands, Walter cautious, Rachel frowning in puzzlement. There was something familiar about this man. Rachel could feel the memory's itch at the back of her mind. But ten years was a long time to recall a face seen only in brief moments ten years ago. Chloe and her husband stared in morbid fascination as they saw the realization dawn in the younger woman's expression. The frown melted from her brow, her eyes widened, and her jaw went slack. She gaped. "Er…uh…" she croaked, freeing her hand with a nervous jerk. Her eyes darted between her friend and the redhead, saw fear and silent pleading in their expressions, but nothing she might construe as a threat. She swallowed. "Nice to meet you, Hiram."

The couple visibly relaxed. Walter nodded politely, while beside him Chloe smiled at her friend in gratitude. Once Rachel recovered from her initial shock, she invited the two of them to dinner. They agreed, then left to catch the next ferry back to the city. They'd done all they needed to do on the island, paid their respects to those whose names they found on the wall. They had no reason to linger.

Once they debarked and retrieved their car from its parking space, Walter climbed into the passenger side with a frown.

"What's wrong?" Chloe asked, pulling into traffic.

Walter shrugged. "Thought I heard someone call my name."

Chloe peered at the rearview mirror, but the street behind her was filled with cars and people. Impossible to discern who might've yelled, assuming it wasn't Walter's imagination. "See anyone you know?"

The redhead craned his neck over his shoulder, then turned forward with a shrug. "Imagination," he said, but he didn't look entirely convinced.

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Finding a hotel wasn't easy. With the dedication ceremony going on, pretty much every accommodation that didn't charge by the hour was booked far in advance. They finally settled on a place well outside the city limits. Though the building was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, the sheets were clean and the bathroom spotless, much to Chloe's relief. She immediately confiscated the shower.

It had been a long day. After leaving the island, she and Walter met up with Rachel at a diner where they caught up on the last ten years. After a year of aimless drifting from one job to the next, Rachel went back to school and became a pediatrician. She was currently seeing a male nurse who worked in the pediatric burn ward. "The kids love him," she gushed.

To Chloe's relief, though the secret of Walter's identity hung between them, it didn't seem to put any strain in the conversation. Rachel went out of her way to be friendly to the silent redhead, who in turn seemed to warm up to the naturally ebullient younger woman. Chloe and Rachel wound up exchanging phone numbers with the promise that they would keep in touch.

Chloe turned off the water and pushed the cheap plastic curtain aside. The unexpected sight of her husband leaning against the doorjamb brought a short yelp to her throat. Her skin darkened in embarrassment. Walter smirked.

"How long have you been standing there?" she snapped in mock irritation, grabbing a towel. Walter shrugged. His expression softened as he watched his wife dry off. Chloe met his gaze and smiled. "What?"

Instead of answering, Walter straightened and stepped up to the still-damp woman, drew her into an embrace. Chloe rested her head against his shoulder with a sigh. Coming back to New York dredged up a lot of memories. They both recalled all too clearly how close they'd come to losing each other that terrible day. After a long moment the two of them parted and, hand-in-hand, stepped out into the bedroom. Chloe slipped under the covers while Walter undressed, both too tired to make love, yet longing for the feel of each other's skin. Naked, the redhead slid into bed beside his wife and turned out the lamp. Their bodies twined in the darkness, drawing comfort in each other's solid presence. Chloe felt the slightest tremor run through her body. Walter's arms tightened around her. He heard Chloe sniff, felt her tears as her cheek brushed against his shoulder. "It's okay," he murmured, stroking her hair.

"God," she choked, half laughing, "I thought _I'd_ be comforting _you_." She drew away, ran her hands over the familiar curves of his face. In the darkness she felt the roughness of his perpetual stubble, the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. "You're not even sad."

Walter shook his head. "I am sad. But…also feel _lighter_, somehow." He frowned. "Does that make sense?"

"Sure," Chloe sniffed, "You've finally let go of all your ghosts."

"And you didn't even know you had any of your own."

"N-no," she sobbed, buried her face against his shoulder, "It's like being there, seeing all those names, it finally made it all _real._ You know? It's like that day was just a haze in the back of my mind. Like I couldn't face it before now. And, god, it hurts so much." Her body shook as she wept unexpected tears she thought she'd shed long ago. Walter held her, grateful for the chance to repay his wife for all the years she comforted him.

He hadn't lied when he said he felt lighter, no longer burdened by the memories and guilt he bore. But he knew they would continue to haunt him just the same, like pains from an old scar. The nightmares he suffered from time to time would still disturb his nights. But the hold they had on him would no longer be as strong. His conscience was as clear as it would ever be. He lay the past to rest and would focus entirely on the present, his family, his home.

"Thank you for bringing me here," he whispered to his wife.

Chloe hugged him, her sobs quieted. She whispered back, "Thank you for being with me now." She drew back, sought her husband's lips with her own. Soon they realized they weren't so tired after all.


	3. Families

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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October 31, 1995

"_HEEE! Heeheehee!" _The green-skinned hag cackled as she lunged through the bedroom door, arms splayed to capture unwary morsels. Her pointy hat swayed drunkenly atop her tangled mop of hair, then miraculously settled in a relatively upright position.

Danielle, more than halfway into her costume, didn't even bat an eye. "Hi, Auntie."

Elsie let her arms drop to her sides, the black sleeves of her gown billowing from the sudden movement. "That all the enthusiasm you can muster?" she asked, voice slightly twangy thanks to the fake nose glued to her face.

"You dress like a witch every year. Big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal! I finally got everything just right. Look," she pointed at her face, "Got hair on the warts and everything."

Danny zipped up her multicolored coveralls. Her expression was far too somber for a nine-year-old on Halloween. Elsie put a sympathetic arm around the girl's shoulders. "Didn't expect to miss them this much, didya?"

Shrug. "'S just a stupid holiday." Which her parents never missed out on, ever, till now. Every year Momma would help Auntie make the popcorn balls and Rice Crispie ghosts, Daddy would go trick-or-treating with Danielle and pretend to be bored, and afterwards everybody would go to the community center to play Halloween games like bobbing for apples and eat too many orange-and-black frosted cupcakes. But this year it was just Danielle and Auntie.

"At least your momma got to help with your costume," Elsie said in a vain attempt to lessen the girl's disappointment. "Who the heck're you supposed to be again?"

"Jehu, Auntie!" the girl shouted in half-serious, half-amused exasperation, "He's only the coolest superhero ever!" One of the latest rash of masked vigilantes, Jehu caromed through the city streets in his custom muscle car chasing down criminals in their getaway cars. He was very popular with the kids. Instead of buying the cheap plastic costume--which, incidentally, was manufactured by Veidt Enterprises--Danny and her mother pieced her outfit together using a jumper and an old football helmet. The jumper was dyed red and white, the helmet painted blue with white stars. Just like Jehu's costume.

Elsie never thought she'd see the day when superheroes were back in style. The fact that they were all technically outlaws only added to their appeal. Robin Hood with guns.

"_Whuff!" _The faint sound of Nixon's bark reached their ears.

"That'll be Ceecee and the others."

Danny quickly pulled on her white gloves while Auntie tied the girl's long auburn hair into a bun and helped her slip on her helmet. Danny then grabbed her trusty trick-or-treating bag and hurried out of her room and down the stairs. Elsie followed at a more sedate pace. She reached the landing just as her grandniece opened the front door to reveal Cecelia Dobbins and half a dozen outlandishly dressed kids.

"Trick or treat!" piping voices cheered.

"Tikka teet!" little Sarah Dobbins, held in her mother's arms, waved a chubby fist. She was dressed as a clown: white baggy polka-dotted jumper with red pompom buttons and blue ruffles at the cuffs and collar, two white dots painted on her cheeks, and a red bulbous nose held in place with a rubber band. Elsie was instantly smitten by the sight.

"Ooh! Lookit you, such a _cutie!_" she gushed. The bashful toddler buried her face against her mother's shoulder, knocking her red nose askew.

Seth, Sarah's older brother, wore silver painted cardboard for his robot costume. He bleeped a greeting at Danielle. Among the other kids were the standard white-sheeted ghost, a jaundiced hunchback with a pillow stuffed down the back of his shirt, a pixie in a pink frilly dress and pantyhose-and-wire-hanger wings, and one classic Dollar Bill complete with flowing cape.

Ceecee, who wore a pair of black kitty ears and had a set of whiskers drawn on her face with black greasepaint, beamed down at the latest addition to the group. "Hey, Danny-girl. Ready to go?"

"Sure." The girl mustered a smile. It just wouldn't be the same without Dad hunched in the back of Ceecee's minivan amidst the shouting, sugar-buzzed children. She waited while Elsie distributed treats to the eager kids, then hugged her Auntie goodbye and trotted after the others to the waiting van.

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November 3, 1995

The DMV was closed in observance of the anniversary of the attack, so it wasn't until the next day that they were able to submit the license number.

Laurie stared at the printout. "Jubilation? Where the hell's that?"

Daniel unfurled a roadmap across the dining table. "Can't be that far if they drove all the way to New York," he said, more out of hopefulness than reason. He scrutinized a corner of the map. Christ, there were a lot of little towns.

"The car's not even registered to a guy," Laurie pointed out, "Says here it belongs to a Chloe Whitfield-Charleson."

"Maybe she gave him a ride."

Laurie tried to imagine someone stopping on a lonely highway to give a hitchhiking Rorschach a lift. She was never that creative. "Why?"

"Hell, I don't know! Maybe they're a couple."

They looked at each other.

"Then again…maybe I'm just grasping at straws." Daniel slumped back in his chair, staring glumly at the tangled lines that reminded him of a circulatory system. His wife moved to stand behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, kneading away the tension he hadn't even realized was there.

"Not giving up already, are you?"

"C'mon. We both know it's just wishful thinking playing tricks with my mind. I just saw some random stranger who vaguely resembles him and…" He waved a hand in a vague gesture.

"Maybe so," Laurie agreed, "But we both also know that if you try to put this behind you it'll keep eating away at the back of your mind till you go crazy and probably take me with you. Besides, now you've got me wondering."

Daniel frowned, craned his neck around to meet her gaze. "What're you saying? You think it might be possible? _You?_"

Laurie shrugged. "One thing I've learned from living with Jon, damn near anything's possible." She strolled back to the table and settled into the other chair, leaned forward to squint at the jumble of rural towns. "This'll go faster if both of us look."

Daniel smiled at his wife in gratitude.

A little over an hour later he was circling the tiny out-of-the-way dot marked JUBILATION with a red pen when the front door opened and a blonde dervish barreled in.

"Dad! Guess what!"

The two adults grinned at their eight-year-old son. "What?"

"Lenny Koufax got a _turtle _for his birthday! He showed it off in school!" The boy was the type of hyper individual who seemed incapable of speaking below an enthusiastic shout. He flung his backpack beside the coat rack, kicked off his sneakers, and dashed to his parents' side. Meanwhile Mona, his nanny, strode in at a more sedate pace and shut the door behind her, then disappeared into the kitchen to make the boy a snack. Laurie hadn't been comfortable with a nanny at first, thinking if anyone was going to raise their son, it should be her. Three weeks home alone with a squalling infant soon had her longing for the simple pleasures of a darkened alley at night, surrounded by Knot-Tops. Mona was a godsend.

She and Dan did try to give up their masked adventuring when they discovered she was pregnant, but in truth they just didn't have it in them to be ordinary. This troubled Laurie especially, having grown up in the shadow of her mother's past glories, so they compromised by keeping their activities a secret from the boy. A task growing more difficult each day now that he was old enough to start asking questions, such as why he wasn't allowed in the basement.

"A turtle, huh?" Daniel grinned, "Sounds pretty cool."

Laurie winced, knowing what was coming.

"Can I have a turtle? _Pleeease?_" The child clasped his hand before him, imploring.

"You already have two hamsters that you never play with," Laurie reminded him. The boy's shoulders slumped. That was when he noticed the map spread out on the table.

"What's this for?"

His parents exchanged uneasy looks. "Er, Wally," Daniel laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Your mother and I are going on a trip. We'll be gone for a few days."

The boy frowned. "What for? 'Nother business trip?"

"Your dad saw someone at the Memorial the other day," Laurie explained, "He thinks it might be an old friend of his."

"Who?"

"Someone I used to work with," Daniel replied. He searched his son's expression for any sign of anxiety. "You gonna be alright here with Mona?"

Wally shrugged. "I guess. Can't I come with you?"

Daniel shook his head. "Sorry, kiddo. You got school."

"It'll just be a few days, sweetheart," Laurie assured him.

"And when we get back," Daniel added, "we'll talk some more about that turtle." That brightened the kid's mood considerably.

Laurie gave her husband a dirty look.

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Days later.

Somehow, the trip home seemed to take longer than their journey towards the city. By the time they hit the outskirts of town Chloe and Walter felt as if their eyes were filled with grit and their posteriors worn down to the bone. They heard the welcome sound of Nixon announcing their return and saw Elsie rise from her seat on the porch glider with a broad smile on her weathered face. The couple exited the car, groaning and stretching tired limbs.

"You guys look like hell," Elsie called cheerfully.

"Thanks, Els," Chloe retorted, "We love you, too." She and Walt retrieved their bags from the trunk and hobbled up the porch steps. "Danny back from school yet?"

Elsie checked her watch. "Not for a good forty minutes at least."

"Good," Chloe sighed, "I could really use a shower."

Walter grunted in agreement.

Later, on the rough old schoolbus the kids knew as the Yellow Submarine, Danny peered through the window and felt her pulse quicken at the familiar sight of her mother's blue compact car. She grabbed her backpack and was out of her seat before the bus rolled to a complete stop, which earned her a chastisement from Mr. Bullworth, the driver. She bounded over the three steep steps, dashed through the gated picket fence, and scampered across the lawn. The front door opened and the welcome sight of her father stepped out onto the porch. He hurried down the steps to meet his running daughter, scooped her up in his arms like he hadn't done since she was in kindergarten. Danny let her bag thump to the ground and wrapped her skinny arms around her father's neck. His rough stubble rasped against her cheek. The scent of soap and a faint earthy musk reached her nostrils. His quiet chuckles filled the girl with warm delight.

Walter set his daughter down, ran a hand through her unruly auburn curls. "Have a good Halloween?"

Danny shrugged. "It was okay. Saved ya some Pixie-Stix."

Walter grinned. Chloe emerged from the house and hurried to join her family.

"There's my girl." She hugged her daughter fiercely. "Miss us?"

Danny held up a hand, waggled it from side to side. "Eh."

Her mother laughed at the girl's feigned indifference. "Then I guess you're not interested in what we brought back."

The child's eyes widened in sudden eagerness. She grabbed her backpack, snagged her parents' hands and dragged them towards the house. "C'mon! Hurry up!"

Laughing, the two adults allowed the girl to lead them up the porch steps and through the door. From her seat in the living room, Elsie shook her head in amusement at the family's entrance. She pointed to a shoebox-sized package on the coffee table wrapped in brown paper. "Looking for that?"

Danny released the adults and rushed to the table. Kneeling beside the enticing package, she looked at her parents in silent inquiry.

"Go on," Chloe urged, grinning. It was all the encouragement the girl needed. She tore away the brown paper to reveal the colorful imagery beneath.

"Oh, wow!" Danny lifted it up. It was a model kit; "Build Your Own Dinosaur!" the bright orange letters proclaimed above a picture of a wooden skeleton. Danny was nuts for dinosaurs. She already had numerous figures in plastic, resin, and wood arranged on her dresser or dangling from the ceiling. "Stegosaurus!" she exclaimed happily. She set the box down, leapt to her feet, and went to embrace her parents. "Thank you, Momma, Dad."

"You're welcome, baby." Chloe kissed her cheek.

Walter smiled down at his daughter, happy and relieved to have left the city and all its unpleasant memories behind him.

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Laurie gritted her teeth at the sound of rustling paper.

"You sure we took the right exit?" Daniel asked from the passenger seat while he studied the road map yet again.

"For the last time, _yes!_"

"Okay, calm down. Just seems to be taking a long time to get there, is all."

"Of course it is," Laurie snapped, "It's the goddamned sticks. Town's probably got a church and a saloon and nothing else. All the men will be wearing overalls and John Deere caps, and the women will be dressed in gingham dresses with those frilly little aprons."

"Pinafores," Daniel muttered absently, trying to refold the map and failing miserably.

"Huh?"

"I think they're called pinafores. Those frilly aprons."

Laurie snorted, amused in spite of herself. "Your knowledge of useless trivia's astounding."

"Thank you." Daniel gave up, crumpled the map, and tossed it into the backseat. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and regarded his wife solemnly. "Sorry. I know it's been a rough trip. I honestly didn't think it would take _this _long to get there."

"'S okay. It hasn't been that bad. Nice scenery and all." Who was she kidding? She was going nuts out here! Everything looked the same. Cows, barbwire fences, empty pastures, more cows. Every once in a while some unrecognizable smear on the road that might've once been a small animal broke the monotony. "If it _is_ Rorschach, he couldn't have picked a better place to lay low. Way out in the middle of no-fucking-where."

"Hey, look." Daniel pointed at a sign: LOVETTESVILLE, 5 MI. "Lovettesville. Map says that's the last town before Jubilation."

"Thank god! How much longer?"

He shrugged. "Hour, maybe?"

Laurie sighed. "Great."

"Want me to take the wheel?"

"No, it's fine. Driving's the only thing keeping me from losing it completely."

Daniel chuckled. "You and bucolic country settings don't mix well."

"Nope. City gal through and through."

They stopped in Lovettesville to grab a couple of sodas and stretch their legs, then got back into the car and continued towards their destination. Sooner than they dared to hope, they came upon a sign declaring: JUBILATION WELCOMES YOU! They drove into the rural town and gaped at their surroundings. As they drifted down the main thoroughfare they were confronted on either side by spotless green lawns, freshly painted houses, and large picturesque trees. Children played out in the open rather than huddle in front of their TV's while men and women chatted companionably on porches and sipped iced tea.

"Feels like we've fallen into a Norman Rockwell painting," Daniel muttered.

Most of the residents they saw were black. "Shouldn't be too hard to find a redhead around here," he observed.

"Any idea where we should go?"

Daniel reached into his pocket and extracted the printout. He stared at the address, then scanned the street signs. "Not a clue."

"Well," Laurie sighed philosophically, "When in doubt, ask for directions." She turned the steering wheel and parked the car in front of a building that appeared to be a combination diner/general store. The couple got out of the car and, after a second's debate, decided to try their luck in the general store first. _Jingle_ went the bell over the door as they entered. Behind the checkout counter an elderly black man, short afro and beard snow white against ebony skin, set down his gardening magazine and flashed a brilliant smile. "Shortcut, right?"

Daniel blinked. "Pardon?"

"'Bout th' only out-of-towners we see around here are those that try ta take a shortcut an' wind up here," the man stated cheerfully, "Need some directions?"

"Er, yeah, but we're not lost. We really meant to come here."

"No kiddin'!" Eyebrows like albino caterpillars rose in surprise. "Mind if I ask what's drawn you two ta our fair town?"

Laurie found herself smiling at the man's laidback charm. He had an interesting way of talking; not quite a drawl. More like his tongue didn't see the need to rush to the end of the sentence, but instead took the time to enjoy the scenery.

"We're looking for someone." Daniel unfolded the printout and read the address. "Know where that is?"

The old man smirked good naturedly. "Town this small, everybody knows where everything is. That's th' Charlesons' place your askin' for. Probably drove right past it soon as ya came in. Nice little blue house."

"Thanks." Daniel folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Got business with th' Charlesons?"

"Kind of," Daniel replied slowly, uncertain if this was wise, "We're looking for an old friend."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A man about so high," he held his hand up, indicating a shorter individual, "white, red hair."

The old man shrugged. "'Fraid that doesn't ring any bells. Only redhead I know's Deb Blascoe who runs the diner." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the business next door. The old man then planted both hands on the counter and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "Truth is, I think she dyes it. But don't let on I said so."

A smile tugged the corners of Daniel's mouth. "Your secret's safe with us."

The man straightened. "Sorry I couldn't help with your friend."

"It was a long shot anyway," Laurie replied.

_Jingle._ The old man's grin broadened at the sight of the new arrival. "Hey, Danny-girl!"

Daniel and Laurie gaped.


	4. The Good Guys

**A/N:** Thank you all once again for your reviews. I was thrilled to see some familiar names amongst them. Repeat readers, yay! And plenty of new ones, too. How cool is that? Hope to hear more from you all.

A snippet of this chapter is some dialogue I paraphrased from the Watchmen movie. My apologies if I messed anything up.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Morning.

Sprawled in her daybed, Danielle rolled onto her back and stretched luxuriantly. Her blue eyes opened to regard the pterodactyls hanging from the ceiling; one a completed balsawood skeleton she got for her last birthday; the other a garish rubber figure painted bruise-purple, wings sagging tiredly. The room was flooded with buttery sunlight. Danny grinned; it was Saturday, the greatest morning of the best day of the week. She kicked aside the covers and leapt out of bed. Her bare feet negotiated the perpetual clutter of the bedroom floor with long-practiced ease. Once in the hall, she tiptoed silently past the closed door of her parents' room and down the stairs. Elsie, as always, was up and puttering about in the kitchen, gathering the ingredients for the family's traditional Saturday breakfast.

"Morning, munchkin," she grinned at her grandniece.

"Morning!" Danny went to the cupboard where the cereals were kept and grabbed the Count Chocula while her auntie dug out a bowl and spoon for her. Normally, Chloe forbade her child from eating cereal unless it was raisin bran or possibly Frosted Mini-Wheats, but she made an exception for weekend mornings. Danny poured herself a heaping bowl of the irredeemably sugary confection, added a splash of milk, put the cereal box away, and carried her bowl out to the living room. There, seated cross-legged on the floor a scant eighteen inches from the TV screen, the girl munched on her cereal and watched the Saturday morning cartoons with rapt attention.

Moments later there came a steady sizzle from the kitchen and soon the mingled scents of fresh coffee and bacon permeated the air. Walter and Chloe drifted downstairs, hair mussed from sleep and lazy smiles on their faces that their daughter was now old enough to know had something to do with the muffled sounds she heard last night. Danny smirked; the last time she asked what those noises were her Daddy's face turned as read as a beet and Momma had to fight off a sudden fit of the giggles. One of the many joys they experienced from sleeping across the hall from their child.

"Turn off the TV, Danny-girl," Elsie called from the kitchen. Her uncompromising rule; no television during mealtimes. The girl reluctantly hit the power button on the remote, then carried her empty bowl to the kitchen to deposit in the sink. She then helped the adults set the table and the family took their seats. She liked this part of the day, everybody sitting around in their peejays, working unhurriedly through the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and chatting easily about nothing important. It was a time when her parents were at their most laidback, and therefore, most indulgent.

"Can I go to Zane's after I eat?" The general store carried an array of comic books, including the most recent edition of _Further Tales of the Black Freighter_.

Unfortunately, her father wasn't quite indulgent enough. "No, you may not."

"Awww! But--"

"And don't whine," Walter frowned, "You know better than that."

"Why not let the kid go?" Elsie rose to the child's defense. Being deprived of grandparents, Elsie felt it her duty to spoil the next generation instead.

"Don't want my daughter reading that garbage."

"It ain't garbage!" Danny protested.

"I've already said no," Daddy said in his seldom used I'm-putting-my-foot-down voice. Danny sulked. Momma smiled in sympathy, but remained silent. Neither parent would consider undermining the other's authority.

Elsie, however, was not so hampered.

Once breakfast was done and the dishes cleared away, Chloe and Walter got dressed and stepped out for a casual morning walk. Danielle lounged on the sofa, still in her pajamas, and channel surfed without much enthusiasm.

"Oh, darn!" Elsie's voice drifted from the kitchen.

Danny raised her head and peered over the couch to see the back of her auntie as the old woman stood before the sink, hands planted on her hips. "What is it?"

"I'm all out of detergent for the dishwasher." Elsie loved that contraption; if the house were to suddenly catch fire it would probably be the first thing she'd try to rescue from the flames. She marched into the living room and looked down at her grandniece. "Tell you what, why don't you go on down to Zane's and get some for me? Here," she reached into her pocket, pulled out some money, and handed it to the girl, "Spend whatever's left on something you like."

Danny stared at the folded bills. After purchasing the detergent there just might be enough left over to buy, say, a certain comic book. Two sets of eyes, blue and dark brown, met in conspiratorial accord. "Okay!" Danny scrambled off the couch and ran upstairs to change. She stuffed the money into a hip pocket, ran outside, and hurried to the picket fence where a small green bike leaned. Danny ran alongside the bicycle and leapt upon it like a movie cowboy mounted a galloping steed, then pedaled down the road towards Jubilation's general store. "Woo-hoo!"

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_Jingle._

"Danny-girl!" Zane Dobbins beamed as she entered the store, "How's Hiram doing?"

Danny hesitated; people only referred to her father as "Hiram" when strangers were in town. "He's fine. Auntie wanted me t' get some detergent for the dishwasher."

"Well, you know where it is," Zane pointed at the appropriate aisle.

There was white a middle-aged couple Danielle had never seen before standing in front of the counter. The woman had shampoo commercial-perfect blonde hair cut just below her ears. The man's hair was a darker shade, going brown at the roots. Danny never saw a guy with dyed hair before. Both adults stared at her with an intensity that made her want to fidget. She turned away from them and hurried down the aisle marked CLEANING SUPPLIES.

Daniel watched the girl's pace slow as she wandered amongst the boxes and bottles, hands tucked into the pockets of her forest green overalls. She was about his son's age, her skin the light brown of coffee and cream with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and petite nose. Her shoulder-length hair was an unruly mane of auburn curls. But it was her eyes that had made the man's heart stutter in his chest; an incredible arctic blue. He slowly turned to meet Laurie's gaze and saw the same astonished recognition in her expression that he knew his own face showed.

Danny grabbed a bottle of Jet Dry and hurried to the counter, all thoughts of rebellious comic book purchases forgotten. The way the strangers kept watching her made the girl nervous.

While Zane rang up her purchase the man spoke in an oddly tense voice, "You're name's Danielle?"

Danny eyed the man warily. "Yes, sir." Her momma had instilled in her the necessity of being polite to one's elders, regardless of how weird they behaved.

The man stepped closer to her. He was taller than her daddy, a bit chunky around the middle, but he carried himself with a confident strength. His mouth curved in an open, friendly smile. "Your dad, he wouldn't be a white guy with red hair, would he?"

_Uh oh._ "Um, no," the girl answered quickly, with obvious unease. "'Scuse me." She grabbed the detergent, pocketed the change Zane handed her, then hurried past the strange man and out the exit.

Daniel muttered an absent "Thanks for the help" to the old man and wandered to the door, Laurie trailing behind. The still-vibrating bell _jingled_ at the couple's exit.

Zane sighed, rose from his stool, and strode to the phone mounted on the wall. He picked up the off-white receiver, dialed the number from instinct.

"_Sheriff Dobbins's office. How may I direct your call?"_ Cecelia chirped the usual greeting.

"Ceecee, it's Pops."

"_Hey, Pops! How's it goin'?"_

"Fine. Tell that layabout y' married ta drop the donut, willya? I gotta talk ta him a sec."

"_Sure thing."_ A brief pause, then Henry's deeper voice came on the line. _"Hey, Dad."_

"Hank, I think we've gotta problem."

Outside, Dan and Laurie watched the girl's retreating figure as she pedaled her bike down the thoroughfare.

"You don't seriously think--" Laurie protested weakly.

"She even has his _walk_," Daniel murmured, dazed from the shock of the child's eerie familiarity.

Laurie sighed in resignation. "Yeah."

"Come on." Dan and his wife hurried to the car.

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Danny pedaled furiously, the bottle of detergent rattling in the bike's handlebar-mounted basket. Her heart thudded in her chest with a fear that bordered on panic. Strangers asking for her father. Danny learned to be wary of strangers long before she understood the reason; the people of Jubilation had instilled it in her. Those rare instances when some out-of-towner arrived, everyone would subtly tense up, especially if Daddy was around. When she was old enough to start asking questions, her parents gave her only the briefest explanation: her father did something bad a long time ago and had to change his name so the police wouldn't take him away. They wouldn't tell her anything more, and after a while Danny left it at that. Then came American History.

Like all of Jubilation's children, Danielle attended school in Lovettesville. Perhaps if her hometown had been big enough to support its own school, the subject would've been carefully avoided. But Lovettesville didn't know about her father.

"Today," Mr. Chao announced to the class that fateful afternoon, "we're going to learn about an interesting period in modern America's past." A long, dramatic pause. "The Age of the Superhero."

Young spines bowed with apathy suddenly straightened up in newfound eagerness. The sight brought a smile of satisfaction to Mr. Chao's thin lips. They spent almost the whole week learning about the men and women who started this odd, exciting trend of masked adventuring. The class was never more attentive than they were during those heady days. Yet at home Danny remained silent, choosing instead to focus on her other subjects when talking to her parents about school. There was no conscious motive behind this reticence, yet in hindsight she couldn't help but wonder if some part of her knew all along.

"Your homework assignment this weekend, my young scholars, is to write a fifteen hundred word essay on a member of either the Minutemen or the Watchmen." Mr. Chao marched up and down the length of the classroom, hands clasped behind his back, while twenty-three boys and girls followed him with their eyes, riveted by his every word. "I expect full biographies. Who they were, what motivated them to put on the mask, the highlights of their crime-fighting careers, and their deaths or, if they're still alive, how they are spending their retirement." The teacher pointed at a frantically waving hand. "Yes, Sean."

"What if we pick somebody who never revealed their secret identity? Like Hooded Justice?"

"Then you may include all the major theories about their identity instead of the biography. Just make sure you include the names of your sources."

Danny already knew who her subject would be. She was going to write about Rorschach. The moment she saw the grainy photo in of his strange black-and-white mask and dark fedora in her history book, she felt strangely drawn to this mysterious vigilante. He wasn't a muscle-bound brute like Hooded Justice, didn't rely on fancy gadgets like the second Nite Owl, and never stooped to using guns like the Comedian. All he had were his fists and his unwavering convictions. The history book didn't give much on him. Danny knew his real name was Walter Kovacs, that he grew up in a broken home, and that he continued to fight crime even after the Keene Act was passed. The girl was eager to learn more.

Danielle spent her Saturday in Jubilation's tiny library seated at one of the new computer terminals with access to the internet. The moment she typed RORSCHACH and WATCHMEN into the search engine she was inundated with results. There were entire sites dedicated to the notorious masked hero. She clicked on the first one that drew her eye: _Black Butterfly: the Man Behind the Rorschach Mask._ At first her mind couldn't process what she was seeing. There were two photos situated beneath the site's title. The one on the left was the familiar one of Rorschach with his jack-o-lantern grin. The other was a mug shot; a man with red hair and a fathomless blue stare, huge purple bruises and scrapes marring his gaunt, freckled face.

Oh, god…

For the longest time she just stared at the horrible image of her battered father, then she began to read. She spent the entire day reading whatever she could find. One site actually had the transcripts from Walter's sessions with Dr. Malcolm Long during his short stay in prison. That was how she learned the origin of her middle name; Blaire.

…_Shock of impact ran along my arm. Warm blood splashed my face…God didn't kill that little girl. Fate didn't butcher her and destiny didn't feed her to those dogs. If God saw what any of us did that day he didn't seem to mind. That's when I knew. God didn't make the world this way. We did._

Mrs. Hauper the librarian announced the library was about to close. Danny didn't realize she was there that long. Before she left, she made sure to erase the browser history. The next day, after the Sunday social, she went back to the library and researched Dollar Bill. That was who she wrote her report on.

Weeks later, when Dad talked to her about him and Momma going to see the memorial in New York, Danny almost told him what she knew. She didn't know why she kept quiet, except that maybe he'd be mad that she went digging into his past. She remembered the cold brutality of his words, uttered before she was born, and the hidden anguish beneath them. How could that be the same man who used to sing her to sleep when she was little, who read stories to her, kissed her scrapes and bruises with such tenderness? How could Momma love a man who used to beat people to death every night?

Danny thought about the late nights when she woke to hear her father crying out, in the grip of a nightmare, and then the quieter, more frightening sounds of weeping and Momma's soothing murmurs. She remembered the quiet looks her parents shared when she asked those uncomfortable questions: Why don't _you_ have any baby pictures, Daddy? How come people call you Hiram sometimes? Why won't you talk about before you met Momma? Now she knew.

For a while Danny was angry at her parents for keeping all this from her. Then, as she listened to her father's lonely footsteps wandering the house one sleepless night, she began to understand. The memories of the things he saw, the things he did, hurt him. They hurt to think about, and they hurt even more to talk about. This saddened her, because she knew there wasn't anything she could do to help him. Then news of the memorial reached them, and Danielle understood that her father needed to be there to lay his ghosts to rest. That was why she encouraged him to go, even though it meant missing out on one of their favorite holidays. But once her parents were gone a fear began to grow at the back of her mind; what if somebody recognized him? What if they called the cops or somebody and they came to take him away?

Now, with the arrival of those two strangers, it looked like her fears were coming true.

Hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Danny looked over her shoulder and saw an unfamiliar car coming down the road. Panic bloomed in her. She swerved her bike off the road and cut across someone's lawn. She pedaled recklessly through fields and private lots, the bottled detergent jouncing in the basket until it seemed it might fall out. Danny didn't care. She had to get home and warn her dad. Her bike never moved so fast over such uneven terrain. She nearly wept with relief when the little blue house came into sight. She careened through the open gate, let her bike fall carelessly on its side as she sprinted across the lawn. As she reached the steps leading up to the porch she turned and felt her heart plummet. The strangers' car was coming down the long driveway.

From his favorite spot on the porch, Nixon raised his blocky head and let loose an indifferent _whuff!_

"_Daddy!"_ Danielle bounded up the steps, caromed through the screen door, and slammed into her father who stumbled back with a startled _oof_. She flung her arms around his waist. "Dad! They're coming! Strangers--"

"We know, baby," Chloe said, hovering at her husband's side, "Zane called us. Hank's on his way over."

They all stood in the entryway--Chloe, Walter, and Elsie--brows furrowed in obvious anxiety. It was this more than anything that brought it all out of nightmare and into stark reality; the adults were frightened. Danielle burst into tears. "D-Daddy, I'm sorry. They followed me…"

The terror in his daughter's eyes broke Walter's heart. He hugged her tightly. "It'll be alright."

"They're gonna take you away!"

He tried to shush her, to ease her panic with soft words and gentle strokes. "Not going anywhere."

The car pulled to a stop in front of the gate, the engine ceased its electric hum. Two figures emerged from the car's front seats, the couple from the store. Danny could clearly see their faces through the door's wire mesh. She felt her father stiffen, heard a surprised _hrmph_, and felt herself abruptly pushed away as Walter exited through the screen door and onto the porch.

"Walter!" Chloe and Elsie both cried in alarm.

The two strangers froze at the redhead's appearance, eyes wide and mouths agape.

"Oh, my god…" the woman breathed, hand rising to her mouth.

The man took a tentative step onto the first porch stair. "It _is_ you. Rorschach--"

Danny didn't think. Fear and rage fueled her actions. She burst through the door and barreled into the startled man, kicking and pummeling with her small fists. "Go away!" she screamed, "Leave my dad alone! _Leave him alone!"_

Strong, slender hands pulled her away. Strong, thin arms held her in their unbreakable embrace. She buried her face against her father's shoulder and sobbed helplessly. Let him rock her and soothe her until his words began to register. "It's alright. They're not going to hurt me. They're friends."

"F-friends?" Danny sniffled and pulled back to see her father kneeling in front of her, her mother and auntie at either side of him, stroking the girl's hair and patting her shoulders reassuringly. She turned her head and saw the strangers who stood a few paces away, faces wracked with guilt. "Who are they?"

Walter gently wiped the tears from his daughter's cheeks and gave her a comforting smile. "Daniel and Laurie. They're superheroes." He hesitated. "We used to work together."

Danny sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Really? Superheroes?"

"That's right," the man, Daniel, answered. He knelt down beside Walter and fixed the girl with his earnest, open smile. "I'm Nite Owl, and Laurie's the Silk Spectre."

Laurie smiled and offered a tentative wave.

Danny looked at them, looked at her father who nodded. She turned back to the blonde man. "Then…you're the good guys?"

Daniel's smile broadened. "You bet."

Something occurred to her that seemed to make sense of it all. "I'm named after you!"

"Yeah," the man met Walter's gaze, "Looks like." He returned his attention to the girl. "I'm sorry we scared you. I really didn't mean for that to happen."

Danny could see in his eyes that he meant it. "'S okay."

"You sure? 'Cause if you're still upset you're more than welcome to hit me again."

She giggled, a sound which brought relieved smiles to all the adults' faces. "Naw. I think you've had enough." This earned her a laugh from her namesake.

The familiar rattle of Henry Dobbins's trusty old pickup reached their ears. Chloe straightened from her crouch. "I'll go tell him everything's alright. Why don't you all go on in?"

"Right." Elsie clapped her hands briskly, "Everybody inside! No sense standing around like a buncha apes."

Danny grinned, seemingly recovered from her emotional ordeal despite the wet tracks on her face and the way she continued to clasp her daddy's hand when he stood. Their footsteps clattered up the wooden porch steps and the screen door creaked to admit them all.


	5. The Mask

**A/N:** Sorry it took a while to post this, but I wasn't entirely happy with the chapter and decided to rewrite it. I'm quite satisfied with this version and hope you readers think it was worth the wait.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Henry Dobbins, Sheriff of Jubilation, leaned out of the driver's side window of his old pickup as Chloe approached. "Everything alright, Chlo? Dad phoned the station about a coupla strangers."

"It's fine, Hank. They're friends of Walter's."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Walt's got _friends?_"

Chloe laughed. "I think they might've seen us at the memorial," she hesitated, "They're superheroes."

"Aw, Christ." Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. Just what he needed, two more criminals to keep quiet about.

"They won't be here long," Chloe promised, hoping it wasn't a lie, "They just wanna catch up on things." Such as how the hell Walter could still be alive. She placed a reassuring hand on her childhood friend's shoulder. "They won't be any trouble, I promise."

"Fine," the sheriff sighed, "Just don't expect me to relax till they're gone." He put the truck into reverse and backed the rattling vehicle down the long driveway. Chloe turned and headed for the house, making a slight detour to pick up Danny's overturned bike and lean it against the fence, as well as retrieve the bottle of Jet Dry from the lawn. She walked in to find everyone standing around in the living room, her husband the center of attention along with an emotional Daniel.

"I just can't believe this," the latter's voice quavered, gripping the redhead's shoulders in what must have been a painful grip, yet Walter made no complaint. In truth, Chloe could see in her husband's stolid face that he was equally moved by this reunion. "I was right there," Dan continued, "I saw Jon kill you. I saw the blood."

"Blood?" Danielle gasped, disturbed by the man's intensity.

Dan got a hold of himself. "Er, I mean, it _looked_ like…but it wasn't, was it?"

Walter shook his head. He looked at his daughter and felt saddened by what he knew he had to say. He got down on one knee, eyes nearly level with the girl's. "Danielle, there's something I have to tell you--"

"I know." The child's eyes at that moment seemed to belong to someone years older.

Walter frowned. "You know?"

Danny nodded. "That you're Rorschach. I found out last month, in History class."

Her father sat back on his heels, shook his head in amazement. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't _you?_" There was no accusation in her voice, just simple confusion and a touch of hurt.

Walter used his thumb to wipe away the lingering wetness on her cheek, eyes filled with regret. "I just wanted to keep you safe." He pulled her into a hug.

Danny rested her head on her father's shoulder. "I understand."

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Laurie hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't _this_. The cozy little house was filled with family history, strewn across the walls and clustered on shelves as dozens, perhaps hundreds of photographs. They spanned generations, some so old and faded she could barely make out the faces. One or two had the sepia-tone and rigid postures of nineteenth century technology. But it was the more recent images that drew her attention: Walter and Chloe on their wedding day, Walter uncharacteristically clean-shaven and trussed up in a black tux, eyes riveted to the radiantly smiling woman before him. Walter seated in a rocking chair giving a bottle to his infant daughter, his expression peaceful and filled with such love for the tiny bundle in his arms. A toddling Danielle grinning toothlessly as she reached up towards whoever was holding the camera. Elsie, Chloe's elderly aunt who lived with the family, reading to her grandniece, the two of them snuggled together under a patchwork quilt. All so happy and ordinary--so not-Rorschach. How was it possible for the man who used to make her skin crawl to have settled down in a sleepy little town with a beautiful family, in a house with a picket fence, for god's sake!

Behind her, seated in one of the floral-print chairs, Daniel exclaimed, "You met each other _when?_"

Laurie's ears perked up.

"Late September," Chloe replied, grinning at the man's astonishment, "Back in '85."

Daniel sputtered, eyes bulging behind his glasses. "The Comedian, your masked killer theory… You were in a relationship _the whole time?_ With a _woman?_"

Chloe laughed. Walter grinned at his friend's astounded reaction. The couple sat together on the couch, their daughter seated on the floor with her chin resting atop her folded arms on the coffee table, watching with the sort of rapt silence that children utilized to allow adults to forget about their presence and therefore talk freely.

Laurie shook her head, equally astounded. Rorschach? In a relationship? She remembered all to clearly his snide remarks about her and her mother, his disdainful attitude towards humanity in general and women in particular. And now he was telling them he'd been seeing this woman _before_ he gave up the mask? What the hell could she have seen in the man? Laurie just met her, but she didn't strike her as the kind of person who found violence a turn-on. Hearing the entire story, from their first encounter to their tearful reunion in the city's ruins, didn't make the concept any less incredible.

"Do you think, I mean," Dan struggled to find the appropriate words, "Could Jon have known somehow? Maybe that's why he let you live?"

Walter shrugged. "Who knows?"

"But why would he fake the whole thing?" Laurie asked, joining in the conversation for the first time, "Why turn the snow into blood?"

"So Veidt would see."

The adults started at the child's voice, realizing at that instant that she'd been listening the whole time. "So he'd think my dad was dead and wouldn't come lookin' for him."

Elsie, seated beside her niece, shrugged. "Makes sense to me."

"Out of the mouths of babes," Dan smiled.

Danny grimaced. "I'm not a _babe_."

"It's just an expression, sweetheart," Chloe laughed and ruffled her daughter's mop of hair. The child pretended to swat her mother's hand away in annoyance.

"Well," Elsie spoke, "You've learned about us. Why don't you tell us about what you kid's've been up to?"

Daniel knew where to begin. "We have an eight-year-old son. Wait a sec," he reached into his pocket, "Lemme do the dad thing." He pulled out his wallet, removed a photo from inside and passed it to Walter. The family crowded in to peer at the image of a little boy with blonde hair beginning to darken to brown, face split in a goofy grin. Walter smiled. "Has your smile."

"Yeah. Thank god he doesn't have my eyes." Dan pushed his glasses higher up on his nose.

"What's his name?" asked Chloe.

Daniel smiled. "Walter. But we call him Wally."

Danny wrinkled her nose. "Wally? That's a silly name."

Laurie couldn't be sure, but she thought the redhead was touched by the sentimental gesture. He handed the picture back without a word.

The conversation continued and Laurie found her attention wandering. She went back to ogling the numerous pictures scattered throughout the place. One which got her attention was of Chloe, years younger, posing with another man. He was taller than her, darker skinned, his smile wide and white.

"That's Byron."

Laurie jumped, looked down to see Danielle standing beside her. The girl pointed at the photo. "He was Momma's first husband. He died in an accident. Momma says he's my guardian angel."

Laurie smiled. "I knew a Byron."

"Mothman, right? He an' your mom were Minutemen," the child spoke authoritatively, "We read about 'em in American History."

Lord, her mother would have a fit if she knew she was in a history book.

"Wanna see my room?"

The abrupt change in subject caught the woman off guard. "Uh, sure." She let the girl take her hand and lead her up the stairs. The others watched them leave.

"Your daughter's taken a shine to her," Daniel remarked with a grin.

Walter sighed. "She's infatuated with superheroes," he said, less than thrilled by the fact. Chloe squeezed his hand in sympathy. If it were up to Walter, their daughter would live in a mask-free bubble. He dreaded the thought of her being drawn into that world, however pure her motives.

Elsie abruptly rose from her seat. "Well, I'm gonna start lunch. I don't know about you, but all this excitement's given me an appetite. Do you and your wife like chicken salad, Dan?"

The bespectacled man blinked. "Uh, sure. But, we wouldn't want to impose--"

"Oh, hush!" Elsie flapped a hand and sauntered off to the kitchen.

"Okay," Dan answered weakly.

Chloe grinned. "Don't try to fight it. She'd spontaneously combust if she didn't have somebody to mother."

Daniel shook his head and started to laugh. "I'm sorry, but all this," he waved at their surroundings, at Walter, "and _you_. I mean, Christ, you seem so…so…"

"Well adjusted?" the redhead volunteered.

"Exactly!" Dan's face reddened. "Er, no offense."

"None taken." Walter grinned, a surprisingly pleasant expression on his gaunt features.

Dan shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe how much you've changed."

Walter's expression softened. "I'm sorry I never found a way to contact you."

"It's okay. I--Aw, hell!" he leapt to his feet, startling the couple, "I almost forgot! Just a sec." He abruptly headed out the door. Walter looked at the two women, shrugged to show he was equally clueless. Moments later Daniel returned carrying a cardboard box. "I found these outside," he said breathlessly, "when Laurie and I left Adrian." He set the box on a clear space on the coffee table, removed the lid, set it aside. Walter and Chloe leaned forward in curiosity as Dan reached inside and lifted out two objects. Chloe gasped in recognition while Walter's expression turned cold. Daniel held the two objects out to the redhead. "Here. They belong to you, anyway."

"I don't want them."

Dan blinked. "But--"

"_I don't want them!"_

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Laurie expected frilly curtains, a canopy bed, a collection of Barbie dolls. What she found instead were Matchbox cars and action figures scattered on the floor, dinosaur figurines clustered on the dresser and bedside table. A tomboy's room. The daybed was the only thing remotely feminine about the room, and it was covered in tyrannosaur bed sheets. An old football helmet sat in a corner, painted navy blue with white stars. Laurie picked it up.

"That's my Halloween costume," Danny explained, "I was dressed as Jehu."

The woman smiled. "Oh, right."

"D'you know him?"

Laurie set the helmet down on the dresser between a plastic brontosaur and a triceratops. "We've run into him a couple of times."

Danny's eyes widened. She leapt onto her messily kept bed, jumped up and down excitedly. "_Really? _What's he like?"

"Um," Laurie tried to think of a polite way to describe the notoriously egocentric mask, "He's very…sure of himself."

The girl tilted her head. "That mean he's cocky?"

Laurie chuckled. "Yeah. Pretty much."

Danielle rearranged her coltish legs into a cross-legged position; her eerie blue eyes regarded the older woman with a frankness beyond her nine years. "You don't like my dad much."

_Hoboy_, Laurie thought. She sat on the edge of the bed beside the girl. "I never liked Rorschach," she admitted, "But your dad…I really haven't gotten a chance to know him yet."

Danny frowned. "You think they ain't the same?"

"Putting on the mask changes you. There are things I do as Silk Spectre I'd never even consider as Laurie. Sometimes the mask makes people braver, and sometimes…" she licked her lips, "Sometimes it brings out a nastier side."

"Like Rorschach?"

Laurie sighed. "Look, I really don't think I should be talking to you about--"

"_I don't want them!"_

Laurie was on her feet and out the door before her conscious mind had a chance to catch up to her instincts. She ran down the steps, muscles tense and ready for a fight. She found Walter on his feet, eyes wide and face flushed, panting in harsh gasps, clenched fists trembling at his sides. Chloe and Elsie, one beside him and the other at the kitchen door, stared at the redhead in astonishment and, yes, even a trace of fear. On the opposite side of the coffee table, a wide-eyed Daniel held two objects in his hands. One was a battered brown fedora, the other a piece of white cloth, black blots oozing across its surface. Laurie heard a faint gasp behind her and turned to see Danielle on the stairs, clutching the banister as she gaped at the frightening tableau. "Dad?"

That single quiet word shook Walter from his enraged trance. He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, forced his trembling fists to relax. Daniel, realizing he still had the cause of this situation in his hands, quickly stowed the items back into the box and crammed the lid on. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, red-faced, "I really thought you'd be glad to see them."

Walter sighed, rubbed his face. Beside him, Chloe placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, brow furrowed in concern. He tried to muster a reassuring smile. "Overreacted. Won't happen again."

Danny descended the last few stairs and approached her father. She touched his arm. "What happened?"

Walter smiled down at her, stroked her auburn curls. "Nothing. Just surprised." He saw his daughter's eyes drawn to the drab cardboard box. He picked it up, carried it to the coat closet, and crammed it into the top shelf with the old board games they never played anymore. Safely out of the girl's reach until he figured out what to do with them.

Daniel looked at his wife and saw the same question in her eyes that he asked himself; had they made a mistake coming here, disrupting these people's lives?

Danny stared at her dad, at her momma's and auntie's worried faces. Not just worried, she realized in growing dismay, but afraid. After seeing the intensity in her dad's eyes, she couldn't blame them. And that troubled her even more.

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Despite that brief moment of tension, they managed to salvage a pleasant afternoon, thanks in no small part to Elsie's usual effusiveness. They pulled out a couple of folding chairs to add to the oak dining set and everyone ate lunch together. Danny regaled the adults with some of her misadventures--such as the time she and Seth Dobbins painted a neighbor's cat green, or the time she ate a ball of dirt on a dare--in an effort to cheer everyone up and was relieved to see her dad add his own quiet chuckles to the general mirth. Afterwards, as Elsie loaded the dishwasher (disdaining all offers to assist in the chore), Danny once again abducted Laurie and ran outside with the startled woman to show off the rest of her home. Laurie threw a save-me look at her husband just before she disappeared through the door only to see him grin and cheerfully wave, the bastard. Truthfully, she didn't mind spending time with the girl. At least she didn't feel like a fifth wheel, as she did with the other adults. This was Dan's time to catch up with an old friend, not hers.

Danny dragged her towards a furry mound on the porch that turned out to be the ugliest dog Laurie had ever seen. "This's Nixon."

"Nixon?" Laurie didn't know whether to laugh or offer her condolences to the poor mutt.

Danny dropped to her knees beside the limp animal and began to scratch his belly with enthusiasm. "Nixie-Nixon! Smelly ol' dog. Grrr!"

Nixon sighed at the girl's ministrations, whether from pleasure or resignation none could say. His floppy face was almost completely white, the only sign of his advanced age. He was as active as he was a decade ago, which for him meant not at all. The dog seemed determined to hibernate through his life.

Tired of dispensing affection, Danny leapt to her feet and trotted down the steps. "C'mon! I wanna show you Dad's garden!"

_Dad's garden?_ Curious, Laurie followed the excited child around the back of the house. She gasped as she took in the orderly rows of mostly harvested vegetables, not to mention the extensive pumpkin patch. "Your _dad_ planted all this?"

"Uhuh." Danny grinned proudly. She pointed to a nearby tree. "That's my apple tree. Daddy planted it right after I was born." A tire swing hung from one of its stouter branches. Laurie suddenly had a vision of the girl swinging back and forth on a sunny day, laughing and kicking her legs, auburn curls streaming behind her, while her daddy knelt between the garden rows, pulling weeds and raking the soil with one of those little hand-rake thingies. She could see it all so clearly; Danielle shouting _Watch me, Dad_ and Walter settling back on his heels with a smile creasing his sweaty face. _Daddy's girl_, Laurie thought with a stab of wistful envy. She blinked a couple of times and the image faded away.

Danny tilted her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just thinking what a nice tree you've got there."

The girl pointed out beyond the overgrown windbreak surrounding the house. "There's one that's even cooler. An oak tree. Auntie says it's three hundred years old!"

"Wow." Laurie's eyes widened with appropriate awe.

"Wanna see it?"

Laurie smiled. "Absolutely." She let the girl take her hand and lead her out into the open field.

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Dan tried to insist they could find a hotel in Lovettesville, but Elsie wouldn't have it. "Why waste the cash when we got a perfectly good hide-a-bed? C'mon, Walt, help me pull this thing out." And so the superhero couple found themselves spending the night. "And tomorrow," Elsie continued before anyone could even think of uttering a protest, "you two can join us at the Sunday social. Give everybody a chance t' meet ya!"

Walter looked at the hapless couple with sympathy, but made no attempt to interfere. After living with Elsie for ten years, he knew better.

Night settled. Soon the darkened house was filled with the sound of deep breaths as all within it fell into sleep. Except one.

Danielle waited until only the faint groans of the settling house reached her ears, telling her the adults were all in bed. She crept out of her room, down the stairs, into the living room. She then tiptoed past the hide-a-bed with its slumbering occupants and went into the kitchen to retrieve the stepstool. She carried the heavy object to the coat closet, opened the door, unfolded the stepstool, wincing as the joints squeaked. From the living room came the _creeeak _of compressed bedsprings as someone turned over, then nothing but the steady breaths of deep sleep. Danny placed one bare foot on the lower step, hard plastic ridges pressing uncomfortably into her sole. She raised herself up, grateful the stepstool didn't creak under her weight, and climbed up to the top step. Her hands grasped the sides of the cardboard box, slid it down from the shelf. She tucked it under her arm and descended, set the box on the floor to fold up the stool and return it to the kitchen. Then Danny tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor as fast as she dared and hurried back to her room. She left the door open; in hindsight, perhaps part of her wanted to be caught.

Danny raised the lid of the box with reverential slowness and gazed upon the two objects nestled inside, glimpsed only for a moment earlier that day. She set the lid aside, reached in, and lifted out the mysterious mask that was once her father's namesake. The latex fabric felt strange, almost sticky. She stuck her hand inside it, watched the black blots morph in response. It looked almost alive.

_How did he see?_ Danny lifted the mask over her head, slipped it on like a stocking. It clung to her features like a second skin. Staring through it was like putting her face real close to the screen door's wire mesh; she could see everything without trouble, though it all seemed slightly foggy from the crisscrossed threads. She went to the mirror above her dresser and gasped at her reflection. The dark blots whorled and shifted in response to her body's heat and the movements of her facial muscles. It was beautiful. "Cool…"

"Take it off."

She whirled to see her father standing at her open door, dressed in the baggy sweatpants and T-shirt he slept in, face unreadable in the dim light of her bedside lamp. Danny slipped the mask off and put it back in the box, eyes downcast and guiltily biting her lip. Walter stepped into the room and replaced the lid on the box. He gripped the edge of her dresser, leaned his weight on his freckled arms, head bent and eyes closed. Danny could see the sadness on her father's face, far worse than angry recrimination. Her lower lip trembled.

"I don't want you handling these," Walter said quietly.

Danny sniffed. "I won't."

He looked at her and his expression softened. "C'mere." He knelt, pulled his daughter into a hug. "'S okay. I'm not mad."

"I know." Danny wiped her eyes. "I just wanted t' see 'em."

Walter sighed. "Superhero stuff." Superheroes were as popular now as pirates were ten years ago. Some of them even had their own breakfast cereals, for Christ's sake.

"No! I wanted t' see 'em 'cause they're _yours_. You don't have anything here like Momma an' Auntie." The house was crammed with family history; pictures and mementoes from the two women's past. But Walter didn't have anything from before his life here--not even the picture of "Grampa Jed" and young Hiram hanging on Danny's wall was his, for the little boy who so resembled her father was long dead; only his name, Hiram Charleson, lived on as Walter's alias--nor did Walter speak of things that happened in his past. It was as if he sprang from nothingness. "You never tell me anything."

Walter tightened his arms around her in a gentle squeeze. "Nothing you want to know."

"Yes I do." Danny pulled back to look him in the eye. "You're my _father_, but it's like I don't know anything about you. I had t' hear it all from a coupla _strangers_."

The sadness in his eyes only seemed to deepen at her words. Walter pursed his lips, withdrew from their hug, and wandered to his daughter's bed. He sat on the edge, patted his knee. Wordlessly, Danielle moved to sit on his lap, leaned against his chest as his arms slid around her. She felt the vibration of his voice as he spoke. "I don't talk about it because…I'm ashamed. I did terrible things as Rorschach. I wanted to protect you from them."

"But," Danny raised her head to look into his eyes, "You helped people, didn't you? You were a hero."

Walter chuckled without humor. "Wasn't like that, sweetheart."

"Then how was it?" Her innocent curiosity broke his heart.

"I only wanted to hurt people," his voice quavered as he finally uttered what he never before admitted, even to Chloe. Even to himself. "The mask was just an excuse. Thought if I only hurt 'bad people,' it'd make everything alright. Wasn't about _saving_ people. Not for a long time."

"Since Blaire Roche?"

He stared down at his child in astonishment. "Where did you hear about her?"

"I read it on the internet," she said, worried she'd confessed too much, "There was a site that had stuff from when you talked to that doctor in prison."

Walter turned away, throat working as he struggled to contain his emotions. He felt the soft touch of his daughter's small hand on his shoulder. "Please don't be sad, Daddy."

Again, that humorless laugh. "Sometimes you frighten me."

"Why?" she asked, confused and hurt by this revelation. Her father turned his sad blue eyes to her again. His rough hand gently cradled her face.

"I'm afraid of how much of myself I see in you." He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I don't want anything that happened to me happen to you. Not ever."

"Didn't anything good happen t' you, Daddy?" she asked, saddened by her father's words, the loneliness behind them.

Walter smiled. "Yes. I met your mother, and then we had you." He stroked her face, eyes filled with tenderness.

Danielle threw her arms around his neck. "I love you, Dad," she murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder.

"I love you, too."

"Will you tell me more about Rorschach? Please?"

God, he never wanted this to come up. He'd tried so hard to forget it all, to erase his ugly past. He never wanted Danielle to know the kind of person her father was. A murderer. A whoreson. But he understood now there was nothing to be done about it. Anything he refused to tell her she could easily find out online, and those damned websites weren't likely to hold back the gory details. Loath as he was to talk of his past, Walter knew silence was no longer an option. "Alright. Just not now." He hissed the top of her head. "Now you need to sleep."

"'Kay." She lay down and let her father tuck her in. Then he kissed her goodnight, switched off the bedside lamp, picked up the cardboard box, and left the room. Once sleep came, Danielle dreamt that she looked in the mirror and the Rorschach mask stared back. It morphed into a grinning face and started whispering to her, but what it said faded from her memory come morning.

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Walter shut his daughter's bedroom door behind him, cardboard box tucked under his arm, and turned to discover Chloe standing in the hall watching him. He could tell from her expression that she'd heard everything. Walter swallowed. "You were right." Chloe always maintained their child would find out about his past sooner or later.

Chloe approached her husband and put her arms around him. "It'll be okay."

"I don't want her to end up like me," Walter choked, clinging to her with his free arm.

"Shhh. She won't, baby." Gentle hands stroked his graying hair, rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. Walter leaned into the comfort of his wife's arms, the box with its damning contents held against his side. He turned his head until he felt soft lips against his own. After a prolonged kiss, he reluctantly pulled away. "Put this back," he muttered, indicating the box. Chloe nodded understanding. Walter circled around her and went downstairs to return the box to he coat closet, careful not to wake the slumbering Daniel and Laurie. His task completed, he returned upstairs and entered the bedroom he shared with his wife. He found Chloe waiting by the bed. The moment the door latch clicked shut she shed her nightgown while Walter slipped out of his T-shirt and sweatpants. As their arms encircled each other and their mouths joined in a deep kiss, Walter wondered yet again what he could have done to deserve someone like her.


	6. One Arrives, Two Others Leave

**A/N:** In this chapter I decided to try a few different interactions between my O/C's and Daniel and Laurie. I'm not sure how good it is, but I had fun writing it.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Laurie couldn't remember ever feeling so self-conscious. It wasn't just the fact that she was surrounded by blacks (though her sense of disquiet at this surprised and shamed her); it was that these people were so _at ease_ with each other. Laurie had no experience with small towns where everybody knew each other, shared histories together. She felt like an interloper. The fact that Walter was so obviously comfortable in these surroundings only heightened her own discomfort. Laurie was never that good at making friends at the best of times; spending her childhood with private tutors and training to become a superhero certainly didn't help her social skills. Add to that the years she lived with Jon isolated in a military installation and it was a wonder she could function at all in public. She was always jealous of Dan's ability to mingle with the crowd. He was chatting people up almost as soon as they entered the community center. How the hell did he do it?

"Feeling overwhelmed?"

She turned to find herself confronted with a trio of heavily made-up dumpy women. The apparent leader of this group was a white woman with unnaturally red curly hair tied up in a loose bun. Her voice was that of a lifelong smoker, rough and throaty. "Woulda thought a city gal like you'd be used ta crowds."

Laurie wasn't sure what to say to that; the woman did have a point. "Uh…"

"Deb Blascoe," the red-haired woman thrust out a hand, long nails painted garish red and filed almost to points, like bloodied daggers. Laurie reluctantly shook hands. "Laurie."

"I run the diner," Deb mentioned offhand. She indicated her companions with a wave of her hand. "This's Bess Everton, town beautician, and Myra Birdsong, pastor's wife."

Myra gave her friend a look. "I'm not _just_ the pastor's wife, you know. Why d'you keep introducing me like that?"

"Oh, how often do I introduce you?" Deb snapped, "Not like we get that many visitors out here."

"How long've you known our Walt, honey?" Bess asked, placing a hand on Laurie's arm.

_Our Walt? _"Uh," Laurie stammered, mind whirling from the sudden change in topic, "Well, I met him at the first Watchmen meeting back in '66." Christ, had it really been that long? "But Dan's the one who knows him better. They used to be partners."

"Oh, right!" Myra nodded, "Walter mentioned that."

"Superheroes, huh?" Deb gave the younger woman the once over. If what she saw impressed her she hid it incredibly well.

"Bet that costume o' yours gets mighty drafty come winter," Bess opined.

"Well, all that running around she does is bound to warm her up some," Myra added sagely.

"Runnin'?" Deb snorted, "In heels? That's gotta do a number on your feet."

Laurie felt like she was mired in verbal quicksand. "Well--"

"Course they'd leave a helluva mark on whoever's on the receivin' end of one o' them fancy kicks you masks do."

The other two nodded in agreement with Deb's observation. "They don't call 'em stilettos for nothin'." Bess winked.

To her surprise, Laurie started laughing. Bess and Myra smiled, and even Deb's perpetually dour expression softened a bit.

A short distance away, Zane Dobbins nodded towards the women. "Looks like she's holdin' her own with the Hens."

"Well, she _is_ supposed ta be tough, bein' a masked avenger an' all," said Dave Jessup, one of the sheriff's deputies. The two older men stood by the door in anticipation of stepping out for a smoke break. Dave pulled his trusty pipe out of his pocket, smacked it against his palm like a billy club. "Walt don't look especially thrilled ta see his old pals."

Zane shrugged. "Ya know Walt, he could win th' lottery an' he wouldn't bat an eye."

"Still, ya'd think there'd be _somethin'_."

Zane didn't respond, though he knew the old deputy had a point. The redhead seemed more subdued than usual this morning, almost as if he was less than happy to see his former compatriots. Zane's dark brow creased in a troubled frown. Noticing this, Dave shrugged. "Ah, whadda I know? He could just be logey from stayin' up all night talkin' about the good ol' days."

"Yeah," Zane agreed without much conviction.

"What's got _me_ worried's all those damn dogs runnin' around. Y'hear they got inta the Lees' chickens? Made one helluva mess." He grimaced in disgust. For the past few months people from the larger towns and cities took it into their heads to dump their unwanted pets out in the country. Those that didn't die from exposure or dehydration soon became worrisome pests that wandered into rural communities like Jubilation, tipping over garbage cans and attacking smaller animals. "Only a matter of time 'fore some little kid gets hurt," Dave muttered.

Zane was shocked; he hadn't realized it was that serious. "Hank doin' anything?"

"Think he's gonna organize some kinda posse ta round up all the strays an' take 'em down to the shelter. Can't happen soon enough for me." The deputy was not a fan of dogs. "C'mon," he indicated the door with a jerk of his head, "Let's go wreck our lungs."

Zane smirked at the old joke and followed the other man outside.

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Walter was not at all surprised at how quickly Dan and Craig Danvers hit it off. The large, affable schoolteacher could endear himself to just about anyone, and Daniel was naturally easygoing--a rare trait for masks. The two of them soon began to share various anecdotes about the man whose friendship connected them, some of them pretty embarrassing.

"…I get to the bottom of the shaft and find the paramedics already there! Rorschach went out to get them and they all rode the working elevator down while I was still climbing down! I felt like such an idiot."

Craig's bellowed laughter filled the entire room, drawing looks and amused smiles from the surrounding neighbors. Dan lifted his glasses to wipe away tears of merriment.

Walter shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. It was strange seeing the two men talking, his former crime-fighting partner and the man who stood beside him at his wedding. His lives as Rorschach and Walter, both separate worlds, now overlapped, leaving the redhead disoriented and somewhat uneasy. His eyes roamed the crowded community center until he caught sight of Chloe talking to Henry Dobbins, Henry's little girl Sarah in her arms. Walter smiled, remembered Danielle at that tender age and how rambunctious she was. Almost as soon as the girl learned to walk she was into everything. He recalled one incident when she was almost two: it was a beautiful day, so Walter set up her playpen outside so he could keep an eye on her while he worked in the garden. He only turned his back for a moment, but the next thing he knew Danielle had scaled the walls of her playpen and gotten into the tomato plants, uprooting half of them before Walter had a chance to stop her. He remembered running towards her shouting "No, no! Take that out of your mouth!" while the toddler giggled and waved a grubby arm at him. She'd squealed in elation as her exasperated father roughly picked her up, tucked her under his arm like a football, and stormed into the house to give her a bath. It was the first time in his life Walter felt like yelling and laughing at the same time, a feeling that pretty well summed up many of his experiences as a father.

"Ruh-Walter," Daniel's voice cut into Walter's reverie, "What was the name of that guy? You know, the one with the eye patch."

Walter rolled his eyes. "Buccaneer Bill."

Craig laughed. "Buccaneer Bill? Seriously?"

"Yeah," Dan nodded, grinning, "There wasn't even anything wrong with his eye! He just wore it to fit the whole pirate thing he had going. He even got a parrot, but the damn thing kept biting him. Rorschach ended up using it to get Bill to tell us where he hid a boy he was holding for ransom."

"Used it how?" Craig asked as if on cue.

Dan snickered. "He shoved the parrot headfirst down the guy's pants! I couldn't tell who was screeching louder, Bill or the bird. There were feathers all over the place--" He waved his hands about for emphasis.

Craig doubled over, wheezing in laughter. "Oh my god! That's awful!"

"Yeah," Dan agreed, "Terrible thing to inflict on an innocent parrot."

A faint movement at the corner of his eye drew Walter's attention to the huge buffet table dominating the center's floor. The low-hanging tablecloth rustled ever-so-slightly. Curious, Walter bent down, lifted the cloth, and peered under the table. A pair of blue eyes stared out at him.

"Hurm."

"I wasn't eavesdropping," Danielle hastened to explain, "I was lookin' for a pretzel I dropped an' heard Uncle Craig an' Mr. Dreiberg talkin'…" Her voice trailed off as the girl lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She heard her father's sigh, then a rustle as he crawled under the table with her. Above them the two laughing men remained oblivious, so caught up were they in their exchange of stories. Walter sat with his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around his knees. The unpleasantness of the night before left a strain between them, a situation which saddened the redhead. He reached over, stroked her auburn curls. "It's alright. Not like anything said here is secret."

A smile tugged the corners of the girl's mouth. "You really do all those things?"

"Yeah."

"They sound like a lotta fun." In spite of the dimness under the table, Danny had no trouble seeing her father's expression cloud at her words. She bit her lip.

Walter shook his head. "Every funny story Daniel tells, there's ten more that'd give you nightmares. Being a mask isn't a game. It's brutal and lonely."

"Then why do it?" Danny hugged her knees in unconscious imitation of the man beside her, head tilted to one side in curiosity.

Walter sighed, drawn into the subject despite his reluctance. "Different reasons. Nite Owl does it because he believes he can make a difference. Silk Spectre does it, I think, because it's all she knows."

"And you did it to hurt people," the girl said, repeating his words from the previous night. Her innocent voice contained no recrimination, no judgment, only sadness.

The red-haired man reached out, took his daughter's hand. He stared at the contrast between them; brown to white; soft youthful skin against rough callous. Her fingers were long and slender like his, delicate and yet strong. "Rorschach could only see the world in black and white," he murmured, focused on their joined hands, "There was good and there was evil, and evil had to be punished. There was no room for mercy or kindness, no time for friends. No happiness. Only the anger which constantly fed on itself."

Danny frowned as she struggled to understand. Only anger? She imagined the man her father used to be, a simmering furnace of rage hunting the darkened city streets, his face a whirling, senseless mask. She shivered. "Monster under the bed."

A quiet, humorless chuckle. "Yes. Just like."

"Then…what made you different from the bad guys?"

Walter shook his head, eyes cast down in regret. "Wish I knew."

Danny scooted closer to rest her head on his shoulder. "I do."

"Oh?" Walter put his arm around his child. "What?"

"You still _cared_."

_You know what our problem is? _Chloe's voice rose in his memory, _We both care too damn much. You try to beat the bad out of people. I try to patch up the good. And nothing ever changes. But we just can't seem to let ourselves stop._

"Yes," Walter answered, "Still cared." Despite his protests that his actions were not about saving others, he continued to care. It was why he remained so tortured.

"I'm glad you don't do it anymore."

He smiled, hugged the girl closer. "Me too."

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The thirst was agony, worse even than the hunger. He did not know where to find this simple, basic necessity. Always the Man brought food and water as if by magic, but now there was no Man and no bowls to fill in any case. There was only the endless hills of grass. He'd thought it was a giant park at first, like the one where he and the Man went sometimes to play with the Frisbee. The Man even brought the plastic disc along when they took their last trip in the car.

"Get it, boy!" the Man shouted and flung the Frisbee out the open door, and he'd run after it without a thought, tail wagging and tongue lolling. But then he'd heard the car door slam, the electric whine of the engine rise, and then the steady crunch of tires on gravel as the vehicle sped away. He'd stood by the road with the Frisbee in his mouth, the wagging of his tail slowed in confusion. Surely the Man would realize his mistake and come back for him? The sun went away and he huddled in the chilly autumn night, still waiting, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds in the dark. When morning came, he decided to go look for the Man himself, taking the Frisbee with him. That was two days ago.

He caught a familiar whiff on the breeze as he passed a stately oak tree. Men and Women! And where there were Men and Women, there was food. He quickened his pace on tired legs. Moments later he pushed his way through a stand of trees and came upon a house surrounded by a picket fence. He leapt over the simple barrier without difficulty, approached the wide porch. He smelled food, water, but he also smelled someone who held claim over these things. An old one raised a massive head and gazed at the newcomer with rheumy eyes.

The smell of water brought an ache to his throat. He lowered himself onto his belly and crawled towards the Old One, whimpering his plea. The Old One stared impassively, neither welcoming nor rejecting the Newcomer. The Newcomer let the Frisbee drop from his mouth and licked the Old One's jaw. After a moment's consideration, Old One lowered his head with a dismissive grunt. Newcomer wagged his tail in gratitude and hurried to the nearby bowls. He lapped the water greedily, bolted down the remaining crumbs in the second dish. The sound of approaching cars reached his pointed ears. In sudden wariness, the Newcomer grabbed his Frisbee and scurried off to conceal himself in the surrounding trees.

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"Nixie-Nixon!" Danny cooed, scratching behind the old dog's ears. Nixon chuffed contentedly.

Behind the girl, the adults passed on their way through the front door. "Don't play out here too long," Elsie admonished, "Lunch'll be ready soon."

"'Kay."

Inside the house, the old woman asked their guests, "Sure you won't stay another night?"

Laurie shook her head. "We really should head back before our son starts to worry."

"Yeah," Dan sighed wistfully. He'd really enjoyed their brief stay in this little town with its friendly people, getting reacquainted with his old friend, who in so many ways was in fact a new friend.

"That's alright," Chloe smiled as she put her jacket in the coat closet, "You guys can always come back. And bring your son along next time. He and Danny should get along well."

Daniel looked at his wife who smiled and nodded. "That'd be great."

"Come for Thanksgiving," Walter said to everyone's surprise, including his own.

Elsie jumped at the suggestion. "That's a great idea! Unless, of course, you already have plans."

"Not really." Laurie's mother, Sally Jupiter, died last year from a stroke. She was the only family either superhero had aside from their son. "We'd love to spend Thanksgiving here," Dan said. Laurie nodded, though she seemed less excited by the prospect than her husband.

"Great!" Elsie beamed, thrilled at the chance to dote over more people during the holiday.

While lunch was being prepared, Laurie excused herself and stepped outside. She sat on the porch glider and listened to the sounds of Danielle playing in the backyard, no doubt putting that tire swing to use. Moments later the screen door's spring creaked as someone else exited the house. "Mind if I sit here?"

Laurie glanced at the other woman. "Go ahead. It's your porch."

Chloe seated herself on the glider which swayed under her added weight. The two women rocked in silence. It was Laurie who finally spoke; she was never good at quiet. "Does Dan and me being here bug you?"

"A little," Chloe replied honestly, "Walter's struggled for years to put Rorschach behind him. Having the two of you here, especially your husband, brought back a lot of memories for him. Not all of them good." Hell, _most_ of them not good. "Does it bother you, being here?"

Laurie pursed her lips. "You know what the first words I thought were when Dan told me Rorschach died? I thought _thank god._ Thank god that creepy psycho's gone." She cast a guilty sidelong glance at the other woman. Chloe's expression remained unchanged; peaceful and a little sad.

"Walter isn't Rorschach."

"I know. But I still see him there, behind his eyes." Laurie tugged at a loose thread on her blouse that threatened to dislodge a button. "Sorry, but I just don't know how I feel about all this. I mean, I'm happy for Dan. Watching Rorschach die like that ate at him for years. Now he's happy and excited like a kid again," she paused in thought, "I guess I feel left out."

"I know what you mean."

Laurie looked at her in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah," Chloe chuckled wryly, "For the last ten years me and my family's had him all to ourselves. Now we have to share him with someone we barely know."

"Well, we'll be heading out in a couple of hours."

The woman shook her head, full lips curved in a melancholy smile. "Doesn't matter. The connection's been made. For better or worse, we're all stuck with each other."

Laurie smirked. "Like in-laws?"

"Pretty much." Chloe grinned. "One weird family."

"Tell me about it," the other woman laughed.

Their final meal together was a relaxed affair, the two families more comfortable in each other's company. When the time came for the couple to depart, Elsie foisted a load of sandwiches on them. "Can't abide that convenience store crap," she shuddered.

Walter's farewell to Dan was subdued, which was only to be expected from him. They all stood outside on the porch, Nixon snoring away in the corner as always. Daniel's throat constricted as the two men shook hands. "I'm really glad you're okay," he said, "And I'm happy that you've got such a wonderful family."

Walter smiled. "Thank you. It was good seeing you again, Daniel." He hesitated, turned to the silent blonde woman. "You as well, Laurie."

"Uh," Laurie blinked, startled by the unexpected words, "Th-thanks."

Daniel smiled and draped his arm around her shoulders. "Till Thanksgiving, then?" he said to his former partner. Walter nodded. It was then that Danny trotted through the front door carrying something in her hands. She held the object out to her namesake. "Couldya give this to Wally?"

It was a plastic T-rex, pebble-skinned and burnt orange in color. Dan accepted the toy with a smile. "You sure?"

The girl nodded solemnly. She smiled as the man got down on one knee and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you, Danny. I'm sure he'll love it."

"You're welcome."

Laurie knelt to receive her own goodbye hug from the child. "It was nice meeting you, Danny."

"You too."

Walter and his family waved as the couple got into their car and began their journey home. It wasn't until the city loomed into sight days later that Daniel recalled the cardboard box with its ominous contents, still tucked away in the coat closet in Walter's home.


	7. Stray Encounter

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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"Sit down, Wally," Mona said firmly, "and stop fidgeting. Finish your snack."

Wally reluctantly settled into his chair. He picked at his food, eyes focused on the window to his left. After a moment his nanny's voice intruded again in a warning tone. "Wally…"

"They said they'd be here," the boy whined.

"They said they'd be here sometime this evening."

"It _is_ evening."

The middle-aged woman's mouth quirked. "It's three minutes after five."

"Sun's gettin' lower, that's evening," the boy retorted with impeccable logic.

His nanny chuckled. "I'm sure they meant _later_ this evening."

Wally sighed, shoved a small cube of cheese into his mouth. His parents had been gone on their mysterious errand for several days, longer than they'd ever been gone before. Though they called faithfully every afternoon when he got home from school, it just wasn't the same.

Mona's brow creased in sympathy. "Tell you what," she said, "How about after you eat we put in a movie."

The boy perked up at this. "Really? I don't hafta do my homework first?"

"Nope." She knew he wouldn't be able to focus on arithmetic anyway. Mona laughed and admonished the child to slow down with his food.

Later, singing along with Merlin the wizard in Disney's _The Sword in the Stone_, Wally's sharp young ears picked up the faint sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The boy leapt from the couch and ran to the front door, flinging it open and dashing out before Mona could chastise him. "Mom! Dad!"

Daniel laughed as a blonde blur cannoned into him. "Oof! Jeepers, kiddo! How much has Mona been feeding you? You must've grown two inches while we were gone."

The child beamed up at his father, then hurried to embrace his mother. Mona walked towards the happily reunited family with a smile of welcome. "Need any help with your bags?"

"No thanks, Mona. I got it." Dan retrieved the suitcases from the trunk and followed the others into the house.

"Didya find your friend?" Wally asked once his parents were settled on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table, a major breach in etiquette his nanny would never tolerate from him.

The two adults looked at each other. They both knew a volley of questions would be forthcoming and had discussed the situation together in the car. Dan believed their son was old enough to be let in on their secret. To his surprise, Laurie agreed. "I don't like it," she told him, "I'm scared shitless that he might get it into his head to follow in our footsteps. But I'm not so determined to keep everything under wraps that I'll risk cutting him out of our lives completely, and that's just what'll happen if we don't fess up to him. I just wish it could've been later. Much _much_ later. Like…off to college later."

"Yeah," Dan answered his son, "we found him."

"So who is he?"

"An old friend," he replied, suddenly reluctant to tell all.

"He and your dad used to work together years ago, way before you were born," Laurie added.

"But what's his _name?_" the child persisted. His parents' evasiveness was starting to worry him.

Still they hesitated. How much could they tell their eight-year-old before they went too far? It was a question that remained unresolved. All they could do was answer his questions as they came and hope for the best.

"His name's Walter," Dan told him, "You were named after him. And your mom and I just found out that he's got a little girl about your age named Danielle."

"After you?" His father nodded. Wally tried to imagine what a girl named after his dad would look like. It was not the most flattering mental image. "You two worked together? Doin' what?"

The anxiety in the room was palpable. The couple's eyes met those of the nanny, who was equally troubled by the situation. Mona knew who her employers were; it was a secret they managed to keep from her for many years. But Mona was an intelligent woman. Two middle-aged people in better than average shape with no careers who disappeared every night and often returned with aches and pains they didn't have a few hours ago, not to mention the mysterious locked basement; there weren't too many explanations for all this, and her employers didn't strike her as the type of people who'd run a drug lab in their home. When she confronted them with her suspicions, they considered an elaborate lie followed by a discreet change in employment for the woman, but by then Mona was practically one of the family. If they could trust her with their son's wellbeing, couldn't they trust her with this? To their immense relief, they discovered they could. This was why neither of them asked her to leave the room, but instead welcomed her reassuring presence.

Laurie removed her feet from the coffee table and leaned forward, eyes level with the solemn eight-year-old's across from her. "Honey, there's something your dad and I feel it's time you knew about us…"

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"I'm worried about Nixon," Elsie said while she stirred the pot of oatmeal that was to be everyone's breakfast, "Seems like I've had ta fill his water dish a lot more often lately."

Chloe, pouring herself a cup of coffee, asked, "Want me to take him down to Mike's?" Michael Henderson was the town's veterinarian. Ten years ago, while he was off at college, his mother and sisters were viciously attacked by a trio of escaped convicts. They would've been killed were it not for Walter. Needless to say, Michael never charged for his services.

Elsie sighed. "Guess you'd better. Don't wanna put it off if it's something serious."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Chloe hastened to assure her aunt, though they both knew Nixon wasn't getting any younger.

Resounding thumps upon the stairs announced the arrival of Danielle. How a girl as slight as her could make such a racket while running down the steps, Elsie would never know. She grinned as the child entered the kitchen. "Morning, munchkin," she greeted her as always.

"Mornin', Auntie." Danny moved to take the filled bowl the older woman held out to her.

"Careful, it's hot."

"I know," she said in her don't-baby-me voice, then carried the steaming bowl to the breakfast nook. A glass of milk waited for her at her usual spot, right next to the jam jar. Danny added a dollop of strawberry jam to her oatmeal and stirred it in.

Walter shuffled in, face muzzy and eyelids drooping. Though he'd slept the night through, it was a restless, dreamless sleep that left him feeling more tired than before he went to bed. He took his oatmeal without a word and seated himself across from his daughter, grabbing the plastic bear-shaped bottle of honey to squeeze into his breakfast. Chloe and Elsie added splashes of cream to their bowls and joined the others at the breakfast nook. They chatted about their plans for the day, the women and the little girl, while Walter ate in silence. This was not unusual; even after a decade of life as a non-mask he still hadn't adjusted to a diurnal existence. Yet another aspect of his past that stubbornly clung to the present. Walter often had to ease into his mornings gradually.

When breakfast was done, Chloe said a quick farewell and headed out to the car while Walter went to the coat closet to get his and Danny's jackets. Walter insisted on waiting with his daughter for the school bus; the memories of abducted children, Blaire Roche in particular, prompted this cautionary behavior. Recent rumors of a pack of feral dogs running around the countryside only reinforced his conviction of the need for such a precaution.

As usual the past few days, as he opened the closet door his eyes were drawn inexorably to the overhead shelf and the simple cardboard box it held. _Should put it away in the attic_, he thought, not for the first time, _Should bury it. Put in the woodstove and burn the damned thing._ But then his daughter's impatient call would draw him away and his conscious mind would forget about the box and its dreadful contents until the next time he opened the door.

Danny walked beside her father to the end of the long driveway, backpack slung over her shoulders and hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. She used to hold her daddy's hand when she was younger, but now found such behavior within sight of her peers embarrassing. It made Walter kind of sad; his little girl was growing up and growing apart from him. It was only natural, but it still left him nostalgic for the days when she clung to him like a smiling, giggling lamprey.

It was cold that morning. Frost rimed the dying grass and coated the remaining leaves on the trees. As they waiting for the bus to arrive, Danny opened her mouth and huffed a plume of condensed vapor into the chill autumn air. She grinned at her father. "Dragon." Walter smiled. Then the familiar yellow behemoth hove into view. It hissed to a lumbering halt, the doors folded back. Walter and Mr. Bullworth exchanged silent nods.

"Bye, Dad!" Danny scaled the three tall steps and dashed towards her favorite seat near the back without a so much as a final glance her father's way. The doors hissed shut, the powerful engine rumbled, and the Yellow Submarine lumbered off. Walter stared after the retreating taillights, then turned and headed back towards the house, feeling old.

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It was Wednesday. That meant Art Class with Ms. Aversham. It was Danny's favorite class.

"Today," the matronly art teacher announced, work-hardened hands folded over her paint-stained smock, "we are working with clay. I want each of you to make a figurine of your favorite animal, and next week we'll apply the glaze."

Danny loved clay. It was like magic mud. It started soft and squooshy, then became hard and dry, then squooshy again when you put it in water. But any mud could do that; the magic happened when Ms. Aversham put it in her kiln. After that, no amount of water would soften it. It was transformed into stone, it's shape that was created by her hands immortalized for all time. How cool was that?

She shaped the reddish lump with eager fingers, scraped and nudged with the pointy wooden sticks Ms. Aversham provided. She was already well ahead of most of her classmates; half of them still weren't sure what they wanted to make, or quickly changed their minds when they realized their kitty looked like a sick hippo.

"That's a lovely dog you're making, Danielle," the art teacher smiled, "Is it any particular breed?"

"Uhuh. German shepherd." She squinted at the tapered ears, carefully nudged one of them into a more symmetrical shape.

"It's very well done. Do you have a German shepherd at home?"

Danny shook her head, then scratched the end of her nose, leaving behind a reddish smear. The girl seated next to her giggled. "Danny's got a dirty nose."

Danny scowled. "Shut up, Kallie. Finish your penguin."

The girl deflated. "'S a duck."

"Now, Danielle," Ms. Aversham chided, "Talk nicely."

"Sorry," she muttered, her attention focused on her sculpture. It looked pretty good, but there was something missing. After a moment's consideration, Danny picked up an extra bit of clay. She rolled it into a ball, flattened it between her thumb and forefinger into a disc about the size of a quarter, then carefully attached it to the shepherd's muzzle.

"Wuzzat?" asked Kallie, the earlier slight on her artistic efforts forgotten.

Danny leaned back to admire her handiwork. "A Frisbee."

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With winter just around the corner, Walter decided to stock up on firewood. A nasty storm last spring had knocked down one of the old trees in the surrounding windbreaks and Walter had used the chainsaw to cut it down to more manageable chunks, but left off cutting them down further into firewood until now. He got the axe from the tool shed and went to the old stump. Used as a chopping block since well before his arrival, the ancient stump's rings were obliterated under countless axe blade scars. Walter set the first log atop the stump, found a secure grip on the axe's handle, then brought the wedge-shaped blade down with all his formidable wiry strength. It wasn't long before he found his rhythm and the hewn logs began to pile up. As with gardening, the systematic work of chopping wood calmed the redhead's often turbulent mind, pushing aside all complex thoughts until he entered into an almost meditative state. Swing and chop, swing and chop. Muscles slid along bone, callous thickened on gloved palms, and sweat flowed down a freckled brow.

Concealed within the close-together trees, the Newcomer watched the Angry Man. He was wrong before; Old One wasn't the alpha here. It was the Angry Man, who smelled of violence held in check and walked like a deadly predator. Newcomer resolved to keep his distance from him. He would've left altogether, but the Laughing Girl-Pup lived here as well, and Newcomer didn't want to leave her. She was nicer to him than his Man ever was. She never smacked him on the nose when he got too excited or took away his food dish before he finished--though, granted, he didn't have a food dish to take away anymore. Newcomer met her two days after the strangers in the silver car left. He'd watched her from hiding for quite a while and envied her playtime. He was too busy looking for food to be able to play. Then on that fateful afternoon the Girl-Pup kicked her ball into the windbreak and ran after it to find Newcomer standing a few yards away. There was a tense moment of utter silence while the two of them eyed each other, he with his Frisbee in his mouth, she with her ball lying on the ground beside her. Then she'd patted her legs and called out "Here, boy!" and instinct drove him to trot over and drop his Frisbee at her feet. The Girl-Pup laughed. "Wanna play?"

Newcomer whined, ears flat against his skull and his tail wagging hopefully. The Girl-Pup picked up the Frisbee and sent it sailing across the little clearing and Newcomer ran to snatch it from the air, then trotted back to her to begin the cycle again. They played for several minutes until a distant call brought the girl back down to earth. "I gotta go now, boy. But I'll come back tomorrow, I promise. You just wait right here, okay?"

He tilted his head to the side, unable to fully comprehend her words, but sensing the friendly sincerity behind them. The next day around the same time as their first encounter the Laughing Girl-Pup returned, this time carrying a plastic sandwich bag filled with kibble. "Swiped it from Nixon's," she explained, spilling the bag's contents into his upside-down Frisbee. Newcomer all but inhaled the precious nourishment. And so it went; she brought him food, and then they'd play, and then she'd return to her house while he huddled for warmth in the brittle undergrowth. The nights were getting colder. Newcomer knew he couldn't survive winter without help. Perhaps if he endeared himself to the Girl-Pup she might convince the Angry Man to let him join their pack. A dim hope, to be sure; the Angry Man did not smell like the type to welcome unexpected additions.

Newcomer sighed, shifted his position on the cold ground. The slight movement caused the brittle grass to rustle. Despite the noisiness of his work, Walter's keen ears picked up the sound. He straightened, axe hanging at his side in a firm grip. His piercing blue eyes roamed over the area where he thought the sound came from. His gaze made the hidden Newcomer nervous and he tried to slink away. Walter's sight latched onto the movement. He ran forward, still clutching the axe. He saw a blur of dark brown and black, heard the chuff-chuff of heavy breaths, and felt the anger rise. He bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and hurled it after the retreating figure. "Get!"

He stood for several minutes afterwards, jaws clenched in rage. A dog. Probably one of the strays infesting the area. But not just any kind of dog; a goddamned German shepherd. Walter loathed that breed ever since he found two of them gnawing on the bones of little Blaire. He hefted the axe in his hand. If he saw that creature anywhere near his daughter he wouldn't bother chasing it off. He'd split its fucking head open.


	8. Shattered

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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It was a lot to take in. Mom and Dad were Silk Spectre and Nite Owl? He thought it was a joke at first, but the adults' sober expressions soon convinced him otherwise. This was the secret they'd kept from him all his life, even Mona. It made him a little angry, but mostly it made him excited, especially when they finally let him see what they kept in the forbidden basement. His father typed in a code on the keypad by the door. There was a _beep_, the little red light turned green, and the doorknob turned without resistance. The basement was way bigger than Wally expected. Naturally, the first thing his eyes were drawn to was the looming oval shape of the Owlship _Archimedes_. "Oh, cool!" the boy exclaimed, gawping at the circular front windows that resembled a pair of large eyes. It was far more impressive than the grainy pictures he saw on the TV or in newspapers. The sight of it erased all his lingering doubts. They were superheroes! His mom and dad! _Superheroes!_ "This is so awesome!" Wait'll the kids at school hear about this. This kind of thing would trump Lenny's boring old turtle any day.

Daniel laid a solemn hand on his son's shoulder. "You can't tell anyone about this, Wally. Not even your best friends."

The boy looked up at the bespectacled man. "Not even Pete?" Pet wasn't just his best friend, they were practically brothers. Hardly a weekend went by when one of them didn't spend the night at the other's house.

"Not even him."

"Sweetheart," Laurie knelt down to meet the child's eye level, "what we do out there, even though it's for good, it's still illegal. If anyone found out about us..." She hesitated, reluctant to place this worry on her little boy. "The police would have to come and take us away from you."

Wally's eyes widened as a lump of ice formed in the pit of his stomach. "Th-they would?" he asked, his normally exuberant voice subdued.

"Yeah," his mother sighed, "The law says there can be no vigilantes, not even the masked adventurer kind. Since we're breaking the law, that makes us the bad guys from the cops' point of view."

"But you help people."

"Doesn't matter, sweetheart. It's still against the law."

"That's why you need to keep this a secret," Dan added, "We're trusting you, kiddo. Can you promise not to tell anyone about this, ever?"

Wally nodded solemnly. "I promise."

Dan smiled and tousled the boy's hair. "That's good enough for us. Now, why don't we show you around the place? There's a lotta neat stuff down here."

The child's face lit up like a beacon. "Yeah!"

Later, once Wally exhausted himself running amongst the racks of occasionally incomprehensible yet still nifty equipment, his parents sat him down in the living room once again and told him more about Dad's friend, his namesake. They'd already explained that he was once Dad's crime-fighting partner, the mysterious and frightening Rorschach. Now they told him that Walter had a family of his own and a little girl about Wally's age named Danielle. "After you!" the boy exclaimed, pointing excitedly at his grinning father.

"Yeah," the man chuckled.

Laurie retrieved something from one of their suitcases. "She wanted you to have this." She handed the boy a plastic dinosaur. Wally was surprised; he wouldn't have expected such an interesting toy from a girl.

"Can I meet 'em?"

"Absolutely," Laurie nodded, "In fact, we're all gonna spend Thanksgiving at their house."

"Really?" Evidently, he didn't find the prospect to be unpleasant. "Can Mona come, too?"

His nanny blinked in surprise. "Uh..."

"Sure she can," Dan smiled at the middle-aged woman, "Assuming you want to, that is."

A smile of surprised flattery tugged the corners of the nanny's mouth. "Uh, I'd love to. If it isn't imposing—"

"Of course not!" Laurie interjected, "You're practically family."

Wally grinned. This was great! Not only were his parents famous (albeit secretively), but he was gonna get to meet Rorschach, who was probably the most famous superhero in the world! He was so lucky!

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Michael Henderson examined the unhappily complacent animal. "Well, no sign of dehydration. No sign of much of anything really. Aside from a touch of arthritis, Nixon's in very good health for a dog his age."

"That'll be a load off Elsie's mind," Chloe said, relieved that the news was good. "Any ideas why he's drinking more?"

Michael shrugged. "Could be any number of reasons. Sometimes dogs just get thirsty."

"No point in reading too much into it, then."

"Well, he is getting up there agewise," the vet said, patting the lazy animal's blocky head, "Any sudden change should be looked into. But in this case, I believe it's nothing. He's just fine."

"Fine for Nixon, anyway," Chloe chuckled. The lazy dog's rheumy eyes regarded her with mild indifference. After thanking the vet, Chloe managed to coax the dog off the exam table and out of the office. Nixon seemed to ooze into the backseat of the car, his flaccid bulk sprawled across the entire rear of the compact car. He wasn't fat, just very very large and seemingly boneless. The loose folds of skin hung over the side of the seat like a hideous tablecloth. Chloe snorted in amusement and shut the rear passenger door, circled the little blue vehicle to the driver's side. Nixon's snores serenaded her all the way home. Once at the house, the canine livened up just long enough to plop out of the car and lumber-shuffle up the steps to his usual spot on the porch. As she strolled past, Chloe frowned at the two empty bowls by the door. She found her daughter sprawled on the couch flicking through the afternoon TV shows. "Danny, why didn't you fill Nixon's bowls?" It was one of the girl's few chores which she always fulfilled reliably.

"I did."

"That's not what the empty bowls outside say."

A strange expression flickered across the girl's face, replaced with innocent chagrin. "Sorry." Danny set the remote on the coffee table and rose from the floral-print couch. Chloe frowned; something in the girl's expression puzzled her. Something other than the annoyance one would expect from a kid forced into labor, however brief and simple a task it might be. It was more like an "oh no" expression. _She just didn't expect to be called out on her shirking_, Chloe thought to herself with a shrug. She headed upstairs to change out of her scrubs.

Danny hurried outside with two large plastic cups, one filled with kibble, the other water. She dumped their contents into the appropriate dishes, her eyes scanning the treeline for a familiar furry canine bearing a faded yellow Frisbee.

"Danielle." She jumped, turned to see her father approaching. Walter was tired, his back and shoulders ached from swinging and lifting all day. But the woodshed, a simple lean-to against the side of the house, was nearly full, and the winters were long and cold. He'd decided to call it a day and was headed for the porch when he saw his daughter step out. The sight of the little girl immediately brought to mind the German shepherd he saw earlier that day. "Need to talk to you."

"Okay." She eyed her father's sober face warily, wondering if he suspected.

Walter ascended the three steps to the porch and moved to stand before the nine-year-old. "Don't want you playing outside alone. Saw a big stray dog this morning. Could be dangerous."

Danny struggled to keep her tone casual. "What kinda dog?"

"Doesn't matter," he answered coolly, "Stay indoors unless one of us is with you." "Us" meaning an adult.

"'Kay." She didn't bother to hide her disappointment, but she kept her worry hidden. How was she going to sneak food out to the stray? Danny thought about fessing up, then dismissed it. She wasn't afraid of punishment. Her worry was for the dog. She knew her daddy didn't like dogs, Nixon being the only exception because he was more like a semi-animated rug. Danny remembered all too clearly the transcript she read online about Blaire Roche, what her father did to the dogs that ate the remains of that poor little girl. Those were German shepherds, too. What if he ended up doing the same thing to her new friend? She needed some time to think about this. And to figure out how to bring food to the stray without her parents or auntie knowing.

The solution came to her while she idly rummaged through her scattered belongings and found an old portable alarm clock she got she couldn't remember when. A cheap plastic thing that glowed in the dark. The batteries were still good. Danny set the alarm for 5a.m., then placed the little clock under her pillow. It's muffled _beep-beep_ jarred her awake the next morning. She grunted, rolled out of bed, and shoved her fuzzy monkey-headed slippers onto her feet. Out in the hall Danny strained her ears for the faint sounds of someone, either Auntie or Daddy, walking around downstairs. Nothing. She padded downstairs, filled a Ziplock bag with kibble, threw on her jacket against the predawn chill, and headed outside.

Newcomer's keen ears picked up the creak of the screen door. The dog roused himself and peered through the close-grown trees to see a familiar small figure descending the porch steps. He jumped to his feet and trotted happily to the Laughing Girl-Pup.

"Hey, boy," she whispered, taking his Frisbee from his mouth and pouring the pilfered kibble into it. Newcomer gobbled the food, tail wagging. The Girl-Pup scratched behind his pointed ears, then scrutinized her nails with a wrinkled nose. "Eew. You need a bath."

Newcomer finished his meal all too quickly. He licked the crumbs from the bottom of the Frisbee. The Girl-Pup patted him again, then rose from her crouch. "Gotta go, boy." He whined as she started to walk away. "Sorry, but I can't play with you right now. I gotta get back t' bed before Dad comes in t' wake me." Voice heavy with regret, she went back into the house, leaving the lonely dog out in the cold late autumn dark. When she showed no signs of returning, Newcomer picked up his Frisbee and walked back to the trees.

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Wally brought his new toy dinosaur to school for show-and-tell. Laurie always thought that was a ridiculous custom. A way for the snobbier kids to one-up each other and at the same time publicly humiliate the shy ones. Made her grateful she had private tutors so she didn't have to deal with that nonsense. Daniel, however, was all for it. "It teaches kids to socialize. Gives them confidence." Right, Laurie thought. Though, in truth, their son had plenty of confidence to stand in front of his peers and chatter about a plastic T-rex. She just hoped the boy didn't spill too much about where and who it came from. It was an understandable worry; whenever he got excited about a subject Wally tended to let his mouth run away with him. And he was very excited about his parents and their secret nightlife.

"We have to trust him, Laurie," said Dan. The two of them were in the basement, Dan tinkering with Archie's systems, Laurie seated in the passenger seat.

"I do," Laurie sighed in frustration, "But he's still just a kid—"

"Who's smart enough to understand the consequences if he says too much." Dan set aside a socket wrench, picked up some doohickey Laurie couldn't identify that made a _scrrick_ noise when he used it. "If we can't have faith in our own kid's discretion—"

Laurie snorted. "Then how come you still keep the basement locked?"

Daniel sat back on his heels, pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Sorry, I'm kinda distracted with these upgrades. Did you want to fight? If so, I can put all this aside and focus my attention on the argument."

A brief flare of anger. Ten years ago she would've let that anger overcome her, would have lashed out at him. Instead, she let it pass in silence, then leaned back in the chair and laughed dryly. "Guess I'm fretting too much."

Dan shrugged. "You're a mom. Fretting's part of the job."

"What about you?"

He indicated the open panel in front of him, the corner of his mouth quirked. "Why d'you think I'm fiddling with these systems that I just upgraded two weeks ago?"

Laurie grinned tiredly. "Wonder if ordinary parents go through this much worry?"

"God, I hope not," Dan chuckled, "It'd make us superheroes seem a lot less extraordinary."

The couple laughed.

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Danny was excited. Thanksgiving was just a week away, and today Ms. Aversham was gonna hand out the finished clay sculptures to take home. The art teacher read out the names scratched on the bottoms of the clay figures in alphabetical order. "Danielle Charleson."

Danny rushed forward to claim her dog. In her opinion, it was the best sculpture in the whole class. Russet brown in color with black along its back and face like a cape and cowl, a canary yellow disc clutched in the clay figure's mouth. It looked just like the stray—only cleaner. The girl scratched an itch on her arm.

Later that afternoon while riding the Yellow Submarine, Danny rolled up her sleeve to discover a couple of raised bumps on her arm. Crap, the dog gave her fleas. She was gonna have a heck of a time explaining this to her parents.

Walter was there to welcome his daughter home. He'd kept his word and didn't let his daughter outside without adult supervision, even when it was just to get from the school bus to the front door. He smiled at the girl as she hopped down the bus's tall steps. The doors hissed shut and the large yellow vehicle lumbered off. Danny grinned up at her father. "Hi, Dad."

"Have a good day?"

She shrugged casually. "'S okay." Her eyes were drawn to the windbreak. Walter frowned, followed his daughter's eyes.

"See something?"

"No," the girl replied a touch too quickly. The redhead didn't seem to notice. He put his arm around her as the two of them headed for the house.

"Got much homework?"

"A little. Math 'n' stuff." She could feel the weight of the little sculpture nestled in her backpack.

Just before dinner, Momma got a call from a friend she'd met in New York at the memorial. Rachel was her name. She and Momma used to work together at a clinic before the attack destroyed everything. Danny was glad her mother found out not all of her friends from that place had died.

Danny went upstairs while her mother chatted away on the phone. Her backpack lay on her bed where she'd left it. She dug inside, pulled out a small object rolled up in paper towels. She unwrapped it with care. The dog figurine stared up at her with round eyes, ears perked up and tail held high as if captured mid-wag. Danny smiled. _I'll give this t' Daddy,_ she decided, _Call it an un-birthday present._ It was a joke they shared ever since they watched Disney's _Alice in Wonderland_ together, whenever one of them gave the other an out-of-the-blue gift.

Down in the living room a few minutes later, Chloe hung up the phone with a sigh.

"Somethin' wrong?" Elsie asked from the kitchen. She might be old, but her hearing was as sharp as ever.

"Rache just told me the hospital she's working at is downsizing. Apparently, the overall improved health of the nation thanks to Veidt Medical Research has reduced the need for many of the healthcare facilities. There are hospitals closing down all over the place."

"Aw," Elsie made the appropriate sympathetic sounds, "That's too bad."

"Yeah," Chloe smiled ruefully, "And on top of that, she just broke up with her boyfriend."

Elsie shook her head as she added meatballs to the bubbling spaghetti sauce. A thought occurred to her. "Hey, y'know Lila's been talking about retiring."

Chloe snorted. "She's been talking about that for years and nothing's come of it."

"'Cause she never found someone to replace her," her aunt argued, "Maybe your friend could come down here, talk ta her about hangin' her shingle up in Jubilation."

Chloe laughed, even as she considered the suggestion. "They might not go for it."

The older woman shrugged. "Worth a shot." She checked the contents of a larger pot. "Wanna let Danny-girl know dinner's almost ready?"

"I'll go." Walter rose from his easy chair and headed upstairs. The two women exchanged worried looks. Walter's tone held that distracted sound that meant something was troubling him. He'd been sounding like that a lot lately.

He saw that damned box again when he put his and Danny's jackets away. He could almost feel that mask staring at him, almost hear it whispering, _Go on, put me on. Be just like old times._ Last night he dreamt that the dog he saw skulking around the place sneaked into the house and nosed open the door to Danny's room. The creature stood over the slumbering girl with red eyes and slavering jaws until the child awoke and gasped in fear. That was when Walter woke in a cold sweat and immediately rushed into his daughter's bedroom to find her sleeping soundly, unmolested. The dream lingered in his thoughts throughout the day, distracting him, which was probably why he opened the door to his daughter's bedroom without knocking. Danny looked up from where she sat on the edge of her bed, startled by the intrusion. Cradled in her hands was a crude figure made of clay. A dog holding a Frisbee in its mouth. The sight of it brought a flash of recollection; the German shepherd he chased away carried something yellow in its mouth. Yellow, like the Frisbee in the little clay dog's mouth.

"Where did you get that?" The coldness in his voice sent a tremor down the girl's spine.

"I-it's somethin' I made in Art Class." She held it up. "I made it for you. It's a dog."

Not just any dog. Fear and rage boiled in Walter's veins. He clenched his fists. "You disobeyed me."

Danny's eyes widened. "Huh?"

"Went outside alone. Saw the dog running around." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Have you been keeping your distance?"

"Y-yes." Danny scratched her nose with her free hand. The look in her father's eyes made her realize her mistake.

"You're lying."

"Dad—"

Walter loomed over the frightened girl, grabbed her shoulders with steely fingers. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he snarled, "Dog could have rabies. Could tear you open and eat your insides before you had a chance to run. Is that what you want!"

Danny tried to squirm away. She'd never seen her father so enraged. His eyes burned with arctic fire. Her own blue eyes widened in fear. "D-Dad, he wouldn't—"

Walter shoved the girl back, snatched the clay figure from her hands. "You don't know anything! You're too trusting to understand!" His hand clenched around the sculpture, sharp edges digging into his palm. He held it up to glower at it. "If I see that dog again," he rasped, "I will kill it. Take the axe and chop it into pieces."

"No!" Danny cried in horror, "Don't hurt him, Daddy! He's my friend!"

_"That thing is not your friend!"_ Walter flung the clay figure across the room. It struck the far wall and shattered, the sound all but covered up by Danielle's agonized scream. The sound bore straight into his heart and shook him from his fear-induced rage. He stared into his daughter's wounded eyes and felt the guilt rise up in anger's place.

The girl leapt to her feet and rushed to the shattered remains of her art project. She picked up the ruined front half of the sculpture; the head, shoulders, and one foreleg. The little Frisbee was broken off. She straightened and flung the lump of hardened clay at the stunned redhead. It bounced painfully off his chest. "I hate you!" the girl shouted, "You're just a liar! You didn't stop bein' Rorschach! All you wanna do is break and hurt things!" Angry tears rolled down her cheeks. Her clenched fists trembled at her sides. "Go away! Get out! _I hate you! Hate you!_"

Stricken, Walter turned and walked out of the bedroom. Behind him he heard the bedsprings squeak as Danny flung herself onto her bed. Her muffled sobs tore into him. Before him in the hallway stood Chloe and Elsie. They must've heard the shouts and ran upstairs. The hurt and recrimination in their eyes told him they heard everything. Elsie elbowed past him, not even deigning to look at him as she headed for her weeping grandniece's room. The sounds of her soothing murmurs emanated through the open door.

Walter stared at his wife. He didn't know which was worse, the anger in her expression, or the sorrowful disappointment. "Chloe..." He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound pathetic.

Chloe's chin trembled. "Get out."

He lowered his eyes and walked past her, down the stairs. He went to the coat closet to grab his jacket, saw the cardboard box on the shelf. Hot bile rose in his throat. He grabbed the box, flipped off the lid, snatched the flimsy latex mask from inside, and let the rest fall to the floor. Fist clenched around the black and white mask, Walter stormed through the front door and out into the cold evening.


	9. Phantom Pains

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Gone. All gone. He knew this would happen one day. Nothing good ever lasts.

The sun set. The cold deepened. Walter trudged through the long grasses which crunched beneath his workboots, brittle from dryness and coated in frost. He didn't pay attention to where he went; didn't care as long as it was away from them. Better that way. For them.

The mask lay wadded in his jacket pocket, latex clinging to the skin of his hand. He had no gloves, no thick clothes. The cold seeped into his bones, but he took no notice of the discomfort. Let hypothermia and frostbite come. He didn't care anymore.

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Night passed. Dawn came. Walter did not return. Chloe found the discarded box on the floor in front of the open coat closet, the old brown fedora lying on its side nearby. But no mask.

She, Elsie, and Danny spent the night together in the master bedroom, the three of them in the queen-sized bed. They never ate their dinner; all of them were too upset to eat. The bloated pasta and coagulated sauce lay forgotten in the pots on the turned-off stove. The next morning Danny said she didn't want to go to school and Chloe didn't force her. In truth, she couldn't motivate herself to go to work that day, either. So the three of them stayed at home and waited for Walter. What any of them might say to him, they couldn't guess. Not once since Danielle's birth had Walter ever lost it like he did the previous night. It was as if for one brief, terrible moment Rorschach's destructive rage rose up in him. Chloe never kidded herself about her husband; she knew he used to do terrible things. That Rorschach did terrible things. But that was past. He'd put the mask away so that they could have their family and happiness. Chloe thought Rorschach was long gone, killed in the snows of Antarctica. She was a fool for believing that.

All day they waited. Danny isolated in her room; Elsie puttering about in the kitchen fixing meals that no one ate; Chloe on the porch, in the garden, searching for any sign of her husband's approach. When night fell again and he did not return, she made a decision. The next morning Chloe picked up the phone and called the sheriff's office. It was not long before the little blue house swarmed with not only the town's meager police force, but neighbors and well-wishers. Elsie dabbed her eyes frequently as Lila and the Hens doted on her. Danny remained in self-imposed isolation in her room, curled up on the daybed, ignoring the occasional knock at the door and inquiries as to whether she was alright. She wasn't alright. Her father was gone and it was her fault.

Another knock at the door. Danny remained silent. The door opened and Chloe entered. There were murmurs from the numerous people downstairs, their sound cut off when the door closed. Chloe sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushed the hair back from her daughter's face. "Think you might wanna get out of this room for a while?"

Danny shook her head. She couldn't stomach the idea of all those people fussing over her. Their sympathy would only make her guilt that much more painful. She felt her mother's hand move in slow circles on her back between the shoulder blades. "You don't have to talk to anyone. You could just step outside a few minutes for some fresh air."

She cracked open an eye to gaze up at her mother. Despite the calm in her voice, Chloe's face was haggard from lack of sleep, strands of gray hair loosened from her habitual ponytail hung limply down.

"Momma?"

"Yes, baby."

Danny sniffled. "'M sorry I didn't say anything 'bout th' dog."

Chloe pulled her daughter into her arms. "Shh. It's not your fault, sweetheart. None of this is your fault." _It's that fucking mask_, she thought viciously.

Danny cried softly into her mother's shoulder. "Is Daddy gonna be okay?"

"Of course he is," her mother whispered, stroking the girl's auburn hair, "Your Uncle Hank and his friends are going out to look for him. They'll bring him back."

"But what if he doesn't wanna come back?" What if he was still mad at her?

"He will." Chloe didn't let her own doubt show. She finally convinced her daughter to spend a few minutes out in the backyard. The girl wandered disconsolately through the orderly rows of her father's garden. The driveway was choked with people's cars. Her daddy wouldn't like all those people in his house. The thought brought a fresh bout of tears. She sat down amongst the desiccated pumpkin vines and sobbed in self-reproach, uncaring of the dirt that stained the back of her jeans.

Newcomer watched the Laughing Girl-Pup from hiding. He was hungry; the Girl-Pup hadn't brought him any food yesterday or this morning, and there were far too many Men and Women around to risk sneaking onto the porch to eat whatever remained in the Old One's dishes. The air smelled of worry and despair. No one seemed to be paying attention to the Girl-Pup. Newcomer decided to risk leaving his hiding place. He crept out of the thicket and approached the small slumped figure.

A faint whine penetrated Danny's sadness. She peered over her shoulder to find the stray behind her, Frisbee clutched in his jaws and tail wagging hopefully. Sudden welling hatred twisted the girl's features. She grabbed a clod of earth and flung it at the dog. The dirt clod struck the animal's muzzle and broke apart in a shower of grit. The dog yelped in surprise and pain, scrabbled away with his ears back and tail tucked.

"Get outta here!" Danny shouted, jumping to her feet. She threw another clump of dirt after the retreating stray. "Go on, y' stupid dog! And don't come back!"

Newcomer ran into the thicket, hurt and confused. The Laughing Girl-Pup was like the Angry Man now. But why? What could he have done to upset her? He peered between the narrow tree trunks to see the Girl-Pup once again slumped on the ground. Beneath the anger she smelled of sadness and remorse. She smelled like the Angry Man. Newcomer saw him leave two nights ago, but never returned. The Angry Man never smelled angry when he was with the Laughing Girl-Pup. Perhaps the Girl-Pup would be happy again if the Angry Man came back. The Angry Man frightened Newcomer, but the stray loved the Girl-Pup. She was his pack now. Without a pack he was nothing. He'd been nothing for too long to walk away now. He made a decision. Newcomer sniffed out the familiar, troubling scent and followed its trail.

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"We've got just about every able-bodied person available volunteering for the search, plus a few trained dogs on loan from Lovettesville's K-9 unit. We'll find him." Henry Dobbins's confidence would've reassured anyone who didn't know him as well as Chloe. She could see the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"You don't seem entirely convinced."

The sheriff sighed. "Truth is, I have a feeling that if Walter doesn't really want to be found..."

Chloe nodded. "Yeah. I understand. I know you'll do your best."

"I'm not giving up hope," Henry said firmly, "and neither should you."

"I won't." She stood before her childhood friend with her arms crossed and her ponytail slightly frazzled. People remarked on her composure, but the truth was Chloe was a hair's breadth from a complete breakdown. Her tenuous control came from an emotional retreat into numbness. If she didn't think about it, if she focused on staying strong for her daughter, she wouldn't have to face what happened. That way led to despair. She'd already suffered too much despair when she lost her first husband. _You haven't lost Walter_, she snapped at herself. Unfortunately, she was not entirely sure she believed that.

Another knock at the door. Elsie hurried to answer it, dabbing at her red and puffy eyes with a tissue. The Harrisons stood outside; Fallon, Olivia, and their son Alvin. Elsie welcomed them into the house, accepted hugs from the two parents. She scrutinized the fourteen-year-old. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"I'm gonna help find Walter." Alvin's tone brooked no argument. The boy sprouted like a weed over the last decade. Many speculated he would rival the sheriff in height once he reached adulthood. He'd certainly come a long way from the timid youngster who befriended Walter. When Walter was still new to Jubilation, Alvin's father, Fallon, a recovering alcoholic, fell off the wagon and attacked Olivia in a drunken rage. It took years for Olivia to recover, longer still for Alvin to learn to forgive his eternally repentant father. If any could understand what Elsie and her nieces were going through at this time, it was the Harrisons.

"Is Chloe here?" Olivia asked.

Elsie nodded, pointed her in the right direction. Olivia approached the silent figure with her back to her. She tapped the gray-haired woman on the shoulder. "Chloe."

Chloe turned, saw Olivia Harrison before her. Olivia, whose face still bore the telltale scars of the severe beating she suffered at the hands of her husband. A single, tragic incident that changed a family's relationship forever. Chloe met the woman's empathetic stare and her fragile composure crumbled. Her face twisted into a mournful grimace and she burst into tears. Olivia knew better than to say anything. She simply drew the sobbing woman into a kind embrace. Chloe wept the tears she'd held in check, clung to the woman who understood her suffering. "He's gone," she sobbed hopelessly, "He's gone."

"I know." The words brought no comfort, nor were they intended to do so. Chloe was grateful for them all the same.

Henry organized the searchers into teams, each led by a policeman. The sheriff held out little hope of finding the missing Walter quickly; it was well into afternoon and the redhead had nearly two days' head start. Even if one of the groups got lucky and found him, there was no guarantee he'd consent to returning home. Still, they had to try.

"Let's head on out," Henry shouted over the murmurs and the barking hounds, "We're wastin' daylight." And with that, the search of the surrounding countryside began.

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Walter jolted awake, stared at his surroundings with bleary alarm until he remembered. He'd sat down at the base of a large jagged tree stump for a rest and must have nodded off. He was exhausted. He had no idea how long he'd been wandering; didn't even know where he was. He was cold and thirsty, his throat felt raw and his sinuses ached. Probably coming down with something. _Catching my death._ He smiled bitterly.

It took some effort to haul himself to his feet. Walter's knees popped. Getting old. He shivered, stuffed his chapped hands into his jacket pockets. The feel of latex against his right hand brought a hollow feeling that had nothing to do with his empty stomach. He resisted the urge to pull out the mask, forced his tired legs to walk instead. Walter had no destination; didn't even know why he was out here. He just couldn't stay still. _Walk long enough and you'll get somewhere eventually._ Who said that? Walter rummaged through his mental collection of trivia, knowing full well it was only a way to distract himself. A momentary reprieve; all too soon his mind returned to the incident. _Incident._ Sounded so dry, clinical. Hardly the right sort of word for what he did. The memory of Danielle's frightened, tear-stained face loomed in his thoughts. As Rorschach he used to beat people to death for lesser wrongs against their children. The way Elsie looked at him...and Chloe. The anger and recrimination in her eyes.

_Knew it wouldn't last_, he reminded himself. The last ten years were the happiest of his life. A loving woman, a beautiful daughter, family and friends. It was more than someone like him deserved. And now he went and fucked it up. It didn't matter that it was bound to end eventually; he didn't have to leave it all in ruins.

_They hate me. My daughter hates me. And I deserve it._ He trudged on with a heavy heart towards nowhere.

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Newcomer followed the Angry Man's scent. It was faint from the passage of time, not to mention the weather, but the stray was determined. He forged on, ignoring the hunger and thirst. He'd suffered through such discomforts before; he could cope.

Far behind him he heard the groups of Men and Women stamping noisily through the undergrowth. They too searched for the Angry Man, but Newcomer had the advantages of speed and knowledge of which direction their shared quarry went. He ran ahead and the sounds soon faded to nothing.

The Angry Man's trail wound through the many hills and occasional clumps of trees without any apparent destination. Newcomer understood such journeys; had been on one himself until he found the Girl-Pup. The Angry Man was Lost. Not lost as in he could not find his way, but Lost as in he _had_ no way. No home, no pack. Just the empty countryside and his own loneliness. A stray, just like Newcomer.

The daylight waned. The cold in the air had a stronger bite. But the scent grew stronger. The Angry Man's distance came from the passage of time, whereas Newcomer had speed. His long legs pumped as his heart sped from excitement of the hunt. He didn't have a plan for his encounter; it was not in the canine's nature. First you found the prey, _then_ you planned the capture. And whatever happened would happen.

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Walter knew he should find some shelter before it got too dark to see. Trouble was, he knew next to nothing about wilderness survival. Until ten years ago he lived in one of the world's most populous cities; the only wilderness he knew was the kind that existed in back alleys and slums. Out here there were no dumpsters to scrounge through, no cardboard boxes to crawl into. There was only grass and scrub and trees. And noises he couldn't identify, which was why he got almost no sleep the previous night. He'd built a pathetic nest of dead grass in the lee of an old log which offered no relief from the late-autumn cold. If the sounds of whatever nocturnal creatures roamed the area hadn't kept him awake, the constant shivering would've guaranteed the same result. By morning he was so frozen and cramped he could barely move.

_Could always go home._ And then what? How could he show his face there after what he did? Even if they took him back, his presence would only be a constant reminder of that moment. Better to keep his distance. Let them try to put it all behind them. Move on. Even if it meant freezing to death in the middle of nowhere, which seemed increasingly likely as there was nothing but grassy hills as far as the eye could see. Walter sighed, settled in the lee of the nearest hill. The light was dim enough that everything took on a grayscale quality. Seated on the cold ground, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, Walter rested his forehead against the tops of his knees and closed his eyes.

As if of its own accord, his right arm disentangled itself and his hand crept down to his jacket pocket. Walter lifted his head to stare at the mask in his hand. He stretched the latex fabric between his two hands, watched the black slowly ooze of its own accord into random designs. No matter how hard he fought it, how much he struggled to forget, to put it all behind him, he still wanted it. He was no better than the junkies he used to walk by while on patrol and disdainfully ignored. He was addicted to the mask. _My face._ Why bother to deny it any longer? His breaths grew ragged, his vision blurred with unshed tears. His fists tightened, pulling the fabric taut. What was left to lose? With a choked sob, Walter raised the hateful mask and slipped it over his head.

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Chloe found her daughter in the master bedroom curled up on Walter's side of the bed, hugging his pillow to her. Chloe climbed in beside the girl and spooned against her, arm wrapped around her thin waist.

"He's not comin' back," Danny muttered in a dull monotone.

Chloe swallowed. "Hank and the others are looking everywhere. They'll find him."

"He won't come back." Danny's chin trembled. She squeezed her overflowing eyes shut. "I told him I hated him," she sobbed.

Chloe, her own eyes stinging, hugged her daughter close. "He knows you didn't mean it."

"I _did_ mean it," Danny choked, "I was so mad an' scared an'...I was gonna give him the sculpture for an un-birthday present!" She buried her face in the pillow, her small body shuddering with uncontrollable sobs.

"It's not your fault, sweetheart." Chloe fought back her own despair at her child's guilt-ridden sorrow. "None of this is your fault." It hurt to see her daughter so miserable; hurt even worse to know that nothing she said could ease the child's pain.

Downstairs, Elsie added another spent tissue to the growing pile at her feet. Deb and Bess, seated on either side of her on the couch, remained tactfully silent for once. For perhaps the fifth time, Deb pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, but a glare from Lila in one of the easy chairs prompted her to put them back without depleting their numbers.

"I hate this," Elsie sniffed, yanking another wad of tissue from the box on the coffee table, "I hate not knowing what he's going through out there, all alone in the cold."

"Heard on the news we're s'posed ta get record lows toni—" Bess stopped herself short as the others glowered at her. The beautician visibly wilted under their collective assault.

Myra breezed in from the kitchen bearing a tray. "Here we go," she set the tray down on the coffee table, careful not to step on any of the used tissues, "A nice hot cup of tea will help." She handed out full cups to the others, took one for herself and settled into the other chair.

"How's sluggin' down tea gonna help?" Deb asked.

Myra smiled enigmatically. "Well, this tea's got a little something extra."

Elsie almost choked on the overwhelming taste of spiced rum. "Good gravy! You weren't kidding."

Myra sipped from her own cup. "I've gotten through many a long night with my 'special tea.' Doesn't help, but it gives you an excuse to act up."

Elsie chuckled and drained her cup. "Think I'll have another."

Out in the encroaching night, Vernon Birdsong murmured under his breath, _"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."_ The brittle grass crunched beneath his feet. The deepening cold bit through his coat which now seemed far too inadequate. If it was this uncomfortable for him, how much worse must it be for Walter, who had only a jacket? _"...He restoreth my soul..."_

"Ya think so?"

Vernon blinked at the bearded giant beside him. "Absolutely," he smiled.

"What about Walt?" Craig asked, his normally booming voice little more than a soft rumble. He indicated the frigid surroundings. "If this ain't the closest thing to the valley of the shadow of death, I don't know what is. Y' think the Lord's with him?"

"He is with us all," the pastor answered without hesitation.

"What if He isn't?" Craig persisted, more fearful than antagonistic, "What if Walt's out there all alone with his misery? Who's gonna restoreth his soul then?"

Vernon laid a compassionate hand on the burly man's shoulder. "If he is alone it is only because God granted him the strength to restoreth his own soul."

A short distance from them, Fallon snorted. "If that's true, God's more of a bastard than I thought." He stared out at the lonely darkened landscape. "Life's hard enough without havin' ta deal with it alone."

Craig and Vernon looked at each other, but remained silent. This incident had to be hard on Fallon, so similar was it to his own tragic downfall.

Ahead of them, Reg, one of the deputies, suddenly halted. He turned to the rest of the search party with a weary sigh. "Light's fadin'. We gotta head back."

"What!" Craig exclaimed, "But he's still out there!"

"And we can't find him in the dark."

"We have flashlights," Vernon protested.

Reg shook his head. "I'm sorry, guys, but even with flashlights we could walk right past him an' not even know."

"Reg, please," the schoolteacher begged, "He could freeze to death out here."

"I'm sorry," Reg said again, face hung with remorse, "We'll set out tomorrow at first light. Walt's tough. He's bound ta make it through the night okay." It might have sounded more convincing if the deputy looked as if he believed it himself. "C'mon. We can't do anything anything else for him tonight."

With great reluctance, the search party headed back.

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Walter felt as if his eyelids were glued shut. Something clammy stuck to the skin of his face like an enormous leech. He couldn't breathe. Panicked, he ripped the thing from his face with a cry of revulsion and flung it to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, ready to run in case the thing tried to attack him again. Only when he saw the familiar white oval with shapeless black blots did his sleep-addled mind recall putting on the mask. Walter scrubbed his stubble-rough cheeks with his hand. He felt as if he'd worn something dead against his skin. Dead and diseased. He shuddered. He used to love wearing that mask; sometimes wore it for all his waking hours. He used to never want to take it off his face. It _was_ his face.

_No. It was Rorschach's face._

He didn't understand. Why did it continue to haunt him if he didn't want it anymore? Why was it so hard to stop thinking about it? He lost his family because of this goddamned mask and now he didn't even have that. There was nothing left for him.

Once, ten years ago, when he believed Chloe was killed in the energy bomb explosion in New York, Walter attempted his own suicide. Would have succeeded, had Chloe not shown up at the last second alive and well. He decided then that his years under the mask were over and done, that Rorschach was dead. Even so, the ghost of his enraged self continued to haunt him. Like phantom pains from a missing limb. A scar on his soul. It would never go away.

_I can't live like this anymore. Not without my family._ He no longer had the strength for it.

A rustle in the underbrush drew his attention away from his dark musings. Something large was coming towards him. Despite his earlier thoughts on death, Walter instinctively searched for a weapon. A fist-sized stone lay within his reach. Walter scooped it up, held it at the ready.

Unlike the human searchers, Newcomer did not turn back when darkness fell. He continued on throughout the night, guided by his nose. Though tiredness made him slow his pace, he did not stop. The scent of his quarry urged him on. Now he found him. The Angry Man. Newcomer emerged from the thick underbrush and the heated smell of rage flooded his sensitive nostrils. Newcomer whimpered.

That goddamned German shepherd! Walter's fingers tightened around the stone until the knuckles turned white. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, felt the muscles of his jaw writhe as his teeth clenched in a hateful snarl. The animal whined. It held a faded yellow Frisbee in its mouth, just like Danielle's sculpture. It kept its belly low to the ground, tail tucked between its legs and ears laid flat against its skull. It crawled towards him, whining in fear. Walter didn't move; he was frozen by his rage. The dog's brown eyes gazed up at him, imploring. The other two shepherds looked at him that way, tails wagging, grinning their doggy grins while gore dripped from their muzzles. One of them had barked in friendly curiosity and Rorschach responded by slamming a cleaver through the top of its head, the blade still coated in Blaire Roche's blood. The other dog had panicked and tried to climb the tall wooden fence, howling in terror. It turned to defend itself at the last moment, but was not match for Rorschach's hate-fueled reflexes. He killed those child-eating dogs and he would kill this one. He would kill it—_kill it_—_KILL IT!_

_Please don't hurt him, Daddy. He's my friend._

His eyes widened. A shuddering gasp escaped his lips.

Newcomer made the only peace offering he could; he laid his Frisbee at the Angry Man's feet.

Walter stared down at the yellow disc placed beside his discarded mask. It was gritty and faded with wear and tear, but he could still discern several markings on its surface: two black ovals side-by-side opposite a curved line. The hauntingly familiar image was tilted to the side as if in curiosity.

The rock slipped from his numb fingers. His weakened legs buckled and his bottom plopped against the hard ground. Walter hugged his legs and pressed his forehead against his bony knees. His shoulders trembling as he was wracked with helpless sobs.

Newcomer watched the Sad Man for a moment, then cautiously raised his head. He crept forward, carefully nudged the shell of the Man's ear with his cold nose.

"Augh!" Walter shoved the animal away from him. He rubbed his wet ear with his sleeve and glared at the stray. "Smell worse than I do."

The dog tilted its head, its tail thumped against the ground. A smile tugged the corners of Walter's mouth in spite of the tears that rolled down his craggy cheeks. He could see why Danielle like this stray. It shared her cheerful disposition. He stood, stared at the surrounding vista. It all looked the same to him. He turned to the dog. "Don't suppose you know the way home?"

_Home!_ Newcomer rose and eagerly trotted off in the right direction. He paused to glance over his shoulder at the man in a distinctive "c'mon already" look.

Walter bent down to retrieve the stray's Frisbee, then stared at the mask. After a moment's hesitation, he picked it up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then set out after his unexpected guide.

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Reg drove the search party out in his jeep to the place where they turned back the previous night. It was early morning and almost none of them had slept very well. Luckily Vernon brought along a large thermos of coffee, though he neglected to bring extra cups, so the men took turns passing the lid around. Despite the caffeine, the mood remained somber. No one doubted they'd find Walter at some point. The question, which none dared voice, was whether he would be alive when they did. After three nights and two days, his chances grew increasingly slim. Not even the usually optimistic Craig Danvers made any attempt to break the silence, while Vernon's prayers remained within the confines of his head.

_Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..._

Craig was right; the endless field they traversed certainly fit that description. It was a gloomy day preceded by a miserable, frigid night. The dead and dying grass whispered in the breeze like ghosts. Vernon shuddered.

Ahead of the others at the deputy's side, Fallon squinted into the distance. "Something's movin'."

Puzzled, Reg raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He adjusted the focus on the two distant specks and felt his heart race. "Christ, it's him!"

"What?" Craig asked, his own hopes lifted.

Reg turned to the others. "It's him! It's Walter!"

The men quickened their pace to a jog, then a full-on run. Walter saw their approach, but didn't have the energy to go any faster. The stray remained at his side. A nervous whine emerged from the dog's throat as the search party drew near. What would happen to him now?

Craig, with his much broader stride, reached him first. "Walt! You sonuvabitch, d'you know what a tizzy you've put everybody through?" He smacked the exhausted redhead on the shoulder, nearly toppling the smaller man over. Craig's bearded face split in a relieved grin.

Walter rubbed his shoulder. "Sorry."

The rest of the men surrounded him, patting his shoulders and inundating him with questions. "You alright?" "What the hell happened t' you?" "What were you thinkin'—"

"Alright! Alright!" Reg elbowed the others aside. "Give the man some air. He can answer all our questions once he's had a rest." He pulled out a bottle of water from his utility belt. "Here, Walt. Ya gotta be pretty thirsty."

He was. Walter snatched the proffered bottle, tore off the cap, and downed more than half its contents in a single long gulp. What remained was poured into the upturned Frisbee, which the dog eagerly lapped up. The men eyed the stray in puzzlement.

"Er, who's your friend, Walt?" asked Craig.

"Blake." Walter blinked; he hadn't realized that he thought of the name until that moment. The animal gazed up at him with liquid brown eyes and wagged its tail.

"Blake, huh?" Reg scratched the back of his neck in thought. "Well, I s'pose we can squeeze him into the back of the jeep."

They had to rearrange a few things, but they managed to fit the dog into the back of the vehicle. While Walter half-dozed in the front passenger seat the others cracked open their windows to disperse the mingled odors of unwashed dog (and man, though no one was tactless enough to say so). The town was in sight when Reg suddenly cursed and grabbed the mic from his police radio. "Forgot ta let everyone else know." He contacted Cecelia at the station to tell her they found Walter alive and relatively well. "Give his folks a call, willya?"

_"Sure thing, Reg."_

He hung up the mic, smiled at the tired man beside him. "Almost home, buddy."

Walter nodded. Even in his exhausted state, his anxiety shone through. What if they didn't want him back? He couldn't blame them if they never forgave his actions. He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket to close his fingers around the crumpled mask. He hardened his resolve; Walter would face the consequences, whatever they may be.

They waited for him on the porch. The moment the jeep pulled in, Chloe flew down the steps and ran towards the vehicle. She cannoned into her husband as he emerged, knocking him against the jeep, arms wrapped tightly around him as if afraid he might disappear. They wept with relief and showered each other with desperate kisses. "I thought you were gone," Chloe sobbed, "I thought I'd never see you again."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

The couple parted reluctantly to let a tearful Elsie hug her nephew-in-law. "I swear to god, Walt, you'll drive me to an early grave if you pull somethin' like this again."

"Won't happen again," he promised the older woman who patted his face with just a tad too much force to show he still had some work ahead to get back into her good graces.

Walter looked past the two women to the lonely small figure on the porch. Throughout the adults' reunion, Danny held back, too frightened by the thought that her father might still be angry with her. Walter approached his daughter cautiously; his own worries mirrored hers. He knelt on the porch steps to bring his eyes level with the girl's, blue to blue. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, eyes shining, "Please forgive me."

Danny burst into tears. She fell into her father's arms and clung to him. "I don't hate you, Daddy," she sobbed.

Relief flooded him. "I know." He held is daughter close, rocked her back and forth in a gentle soothing motion. Danny's eyes opened and she saw over her father's shoulder a familiar four-legged figure jump down from the back of Reg's jeep with an old yellow Frisbee in its mouth.

Danny gasped. "You found my dog!"

Walter drew back from their hug with a smile. "Named him Blake."

The girl clapped her hands. "Here, Blake! C'mere, boy!" The dog trotted to her, elated that her earlier anger was gone. Chloe and Elsie followed close behind.

"You brought home a stray?" Chloe eyed the scraggly animal uncertainly.

"Can we keep him, Momma? _Please?_" The child's thin arms were around the dog's neck. The German shepherd regarded the woman with sad brown eyes.

Elsie smiled; she always had a soft spot for dogs. "Well, Walt named him, that means we gotta keep him. I think it's a law or something."

Chloe could see she was outvoted. In truth, she was so grateful to have her husband back she would've agreed to just about anything. "Alright. But he's your responsibility," she told her daughter firmly.

Danny nodded, too enthusiastic to care about the extra chores this entailed. "I'll feed him an' play with him every day."

"First order of business is to get these two ragamuffins cleaned up," Elsie proclaimed. She eyed the exhausted redhead beside her and amended her statement. "On second thought, eat first, then wash up."

They thanked the search party, then went into the house, leaving Blake on the porch with a couple of full bowls—one with food, the other water—and the promise of a bath later.

Elsie heated some soup for Walter and brought him a bread roll. The simple meal eased the worst of his hunger pangs. When he finished, Chloe took his hand and led him upstairs. Danny moved to follow, but her auntie placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let them be, honey."

"Private time?" the girl asked, minus the usual smirk.

"Yeah. Why don't you help me clean up that mangy mutt your daddy brought home."

"He ain't mangy!" she denied in Blake's defense, following the old woman to get the dog bathing supplies.

Upstairs, while the ancient clawfoot tub slowly filled, Walter stripped out of his rumpled clothes. From the corner of his eye he saw Chloe undress as well. "What're you doing?"

She smiled at him, but offered no other response. She switched off the faucet and they climbed into the steaming bath together. Walter groaned as the hot water eased his cramped muscles. He lay back against the curve of the tub, Chloe against him, her head on his shoulder. Moments later he felt the woman's body tremble, heard her suppressed sobs. He put his tired arms around her. "I'm sorry." The words felt so inadequate, but they were all he could say.

"I thought I'd lost you." It was little more than a whisper, yet the words rang in his ears. Walter gently lifted his wife's head from his shoulder, cradled her face in his rough hands to stare into her hazel eyes, tinged gray with sorrow. He brought his lips to hers, kissed her long and deep. They then rested their foreheads against each other.

"Chloe, I—" Gentle fingers pressed against his lips.

"Shh. Don't apologize. Don't try to explain. Just hold me, Walter." She stared at him intently. "And promise me you'll never run away from us again."

Walter held her. "I promise."


	10. Memories Left Behind

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Walter opened his eyes to see a reddish halo before him. He blinked the image into focus and smiled. Danielle slumbered between her parents; something she had not done since she was very small. The sweetness of the moment was tempered by the knowledge of its cause. Walter's hand emerged from under the blankets to brush an unruly curl behind the child's delicate ear. At his touch, clear blue eyes opened. Walter smiled at his daughter. "Good morning," he murmured.

Danny yawned, stretched. "G'mornin'." She returned her father's smile. "Do I hafta go back t' school today?"

He would've laughed at the girl's impertinence, but did not want to wake Chloe. "Afraid so." Her insincere pout brought a grin to his face. A small hand reached out, touched his cheek which was covered in thicker stubble than usual, a tangible reminder of the family's ordeal.

"Why'd you go?"

Walter gripped his daughter's hand. How could he explain when he barely understood himself? But he owed her an answer for the anguish he put her through. He swallowed. "I thought…Rorschach was back. When I…" He could not speak of the terrible moment when he frightened his daughter with his rage. "I wanted to protect you…from me."

Danny's eyes half-closed as she pondered his words. "_Is_ he back?"

Walter shook his head, the pillow rustling faintly from the movement. "No." _I was only afraid of his memory._

"Good." She wriggled free of the covers, clambered silently down to the foot of the bed, got to her feet, headed for the bathroom. Once the door clicked shut, Chloe opened her eyes. Husband and wife regarded each other calmly.

"Did you tell her the truth?"

Walter nodded. "Yes." Beneath the covers, he felt her hand rest against his chest, over his heart.

"I wish you'd trust yourself as much as we do."

Walter covered her hand with his. His throat tightened. "You still trust me after what happened?"

Chloe answered without hesitation, "Always."

"Why?"

She moved her other hand to touch his face, hazel eyes filled with the same tender compassion that had captivated him years ago. "Because I know you, probably better than you know yourself. I could never love someone I didn't trust. And I love you with all my heart." The last sentence came out as a whisper, yet rang with an intensity that took Walter's breath away, as did the kiss his wife bestowed on him. He kissed her back with equal fervor, arms drawing her closer. Behind his back he heard the bathroom door open.

"Eew!" a girl's voice laughed.

Chloe pointed imperiously at the bedroom door, lips still firmly planted against her husband's. Danny rolled her eyes and padded to the exit. Only when they heard the door close behind her did the couple draw apart, laughing as they fumbled with their nightclothes.

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When Danny got home that afternoon (with a ton of catch-up homework), her daddy surprised her with something. "Letter came for you."

"Me?" She'd never gotten a letter before. She took the envelope from his outstretched hand. Her name was scrawled on the front, obviously a kid's handwriting. The name on the return address was Walter Hollis. Hollis, she knew, was the alias Daniel and Laurie used, after Hollis Mason, the first Nite Owl. Curiosity burned in Danny. She hurried inside, dropped her heavy backpack beside the door, plopped down on the couch between her dad and auntie, and tore the envelope open. There was a single sheet of purple notebook paper written in the same sloppy scrawl.

_Dear Danielle,_

_Hi. I'm Wally Hollis. Mom and dad wanted me to write you a thank you note even tho we are going to meet in a few days. Thank you for the T-rex it is really cool. I like dinosaurs too. When we get to your house I will bring some of my toys to show you. You'll like them because mom says your a tom boy. Mom and dad also say you know their secret. I just found out about it. Isn't it cool? Well I can't think of anything else to say. See you at thanksgiving._

_Your frend,_

_Wally._

Elsie chuckled as her grandniece read the letter. "That's sweet."

Danny wrinkled her nose. "Sweet? He said his mom and dad _made_ him write it."

The older woman blithely ignored this remark. "You looking forward to meeting him?"

Shrug. "I guess." The fact that she had little choice in the matter sapped much of her enthusiasm, though she was curious about the son of two famous active superheroes. How different was he from other kids? Did he have access to special gadgets like Nite Owl's laser-gun? Did his parents take him for rides in the Owlship? Was he better prepared to combat the inevitable schoolyard bullies? Danny remembered the photo her namesake showed her; the kid with the goofy grin hadn't _looked_ especially tough.

"Got much homework?" her father queried.

The girl suppressed a groan, barely. "Yes."

Walter arched an eyebrow. "Better get started then."

Danny hauled herself out of the couch to retrieve her backpack.

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Blake, like all dogs, loved riding in the car. He stood in the front passenger seat with his head out the window, pink tongue flapping in the wind. If one were able to read his mind at that moment, the first thought they picked up would be: _This is GREAT!_

Chloe laughed at the dog's enthusiasm. She'd taken him to see Michael Henderson, who proclaimed the former stray to be in excellent health, if a tad undernourished—a situation the dog sought to remedy at every opportunity.

They pulled into the driveway, the distant _whuff_ of Nixon welcoming them home. Blake leapt from the car the instant his door was opened and ran barking towards the house. Danielle, hearing their return, hurried out the front door to welcome the excited German shepherd. "Blake! Blakey-boy! That's a good dog. Grrr!" She mock-wrestled the larger animal, rolling and growling on the porch while Nixon pointedly ignored them both in favor of his continued snooze. Chloe smiled at her daughter's play. She could now see the benefit in keeping this newest addition to the family. The active girl needed someone to romp around with, isolated as she was, an only child in a house on the outskirts of town with no other kids in the immediate area.

Walter stepped out of the house, saw his daughter wrestling with the dog. For a brief moment something flickered in his eyes, quickly extinguished, but not quick enough for Chloe to miss it. Haunted as ever by the memory of Blaire.

"Hi, honey," Chloe called out in a fake sugary voice as she climbed the porch steps, "I'm home."

Walter smiled, put his arms around the woman's waist. Chloe's own arms went around his neck and she drew him in for a kiss. While they were an affectionate couple, they seldom behaved this way when she got home from work, but their hellish separation just a short time ago resulted in the need for physical contact whenever possible. Danny as well was almost clingy in her need to be near her father. She freed herself from her furry playmate and hurried to wrap her thin arms around Walter's waist. Chloe reached down to stroke the girl's auburn hair. "Got much homework?"

The girl sighed, rolled her eyes. She released her hold on her father and stomped, grumbling, back into the house. Chloe and her husband exchanged amused looks. "Something I said?"

Walter snorted. He saw a loose strand of hair hanging down the side of her face, brushed it behind her ear. His rough palm rested against the woman's cheek. Chloe tilted her head slightly. "What're you thinking about?"

"Need your help with something," he told her, face and voice sober.

"What?"

He licked his lips in sudden doubt. "When Alvin went missing…"

Chloe felt her smile vanish at the memory of that incident, so similar to what they recently went through. "Yes?"

"Henry said he found him at the Leaving Place." It was an old tradition in Jubilation, its origins lost in obscurity. An open secret, spoken of only in furtive whispers and intimate mutters. When tragedy and hardship befalls someone, as it sooner or later must in life, they take an item to the Leaving Place. The item itself did not matter, save for whatever symbolic meaning it held for the individual. It was a method for people to literally leave their troubles behind them and begin anew. Walter heard of this, but—

"I don't know where it is."

Chloe's mouth quirked. "Baby, you've passed it a million times."

Walter blinked. "I have?"

She nodded, leaned in close to whisper in his ear. Walter's eyes widened. "The whole time…?"

"Uhuh."

Walter smiled, kissed her. "Thank you."

Chloe smoothed her hands across the front of his jacket, her eyes lowered. "Want me to come with you?" She felt his lips against her forehead, soft and gentle. It amazed her sometimes, how soft they were when everything else about him was coarse and hard.

"No."

She nodded. "'Kay."

They drew away from each other with reluctance. Chloe went into the house. Walter descended the porch's three steps and began to walk. Blake watched his departure with curiosity, started to follow. As if sensing the dog's intentions, Walter paused, looked over his shoulder. "Stay."

Blake obediently sat on the porch and watched the redhead's retreating figure. A moment later Danielle peered through the door to see what was taking her dad so long and saw his silhouette in the distance. For a brief instant she felt a stab of dread at the thought that he might be leaving again. But no, if that were so he wouldn't be so casual about it. Besides, she saw the direction he was headed. It was a place everyone in the family went to often. Danny glanced behind her, saw Momma helping Auntie in the kitchen, both women engrossed in conversation. Danny made a decision. She grabbed her jacket and threw it on. "Momma, I'm goin' out a sec!"

"'Kay," her mother answered, "Don't take too long. Dinner's almost ready."

Danny left the house and trotted after her distant father.

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Dry brown leaves rustled in the breeze. Acorns fell from myriad branches to join those already scattered on the ground, awaiting collection by the squirrels and other rodents in need of winter stores. The ancient oak stood atop its lonely hill, yet it did not seem forlorn. Rather, it embraced the open sky and spread its boughs as if to offer protection. It looked like something from an oil painting or a poem, the idealized form of a centuries-old tree.

So many of Walter's happy memories took place under that oak: Danielle's first birthday, the rickety folding table, the infant staring in delighted bewilderment at the cake with its single candle that kept blowing itself out in the wind. A picnic with the family, Danielle climbing the three's limbs with a monkey's agility, her father clambering after her as if in chase, her squeals of laughter as he grabbed her dangling leg. Another picnic, just him and Chloe—to assuage his anxieties at their daughter's absence as she spent two weeks in summer camp—eating chicken salad and chocolate cake, making love on the blanket afterward, and the subsequent embarrassing sunburn. But mainly there were the long moments Walter spent alone under the tree, seated against its broad trunk, letting its serenity seep into him.

Alive and ancient, patient, enduring. The tree sheltered more than just laughing families and meditative loners.

Walter circled the hill to where the long wild grasses overhung the side like a curtain. He knelt, pushed the dried foliage aside to reveal a small square opening, its sides shored up with wooden planks. Just where Chloe said it would be. He had to get down on all fours to get through the opening. It was dark inside the naturally formed cave; the sunlight coming through the small entrance was the only source of illumination. For Walter's keen night vision, it was enough. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness and brought detail to the shadows surrounding him. The cave was dome-shaped, its ceiling supported by the roots of the oaktree and reinforced over the years by additional wooden planks. Simple wooden shelves were added to the walls, all of them cluttered with all manner of random objects. There were dolls and dog collars, bits of jewelry, photographs, items of clothing. Many of the older objects were decayed beyond recognition, pushed aside to make room for newer things. Yet nothing was ever taken away. This was the Leaving Place. Each of its treasures meant nothing to everyone, and everything to someone. Somewhere in here, Walter knew, was an item Chloe left when she lost her first husband, Byron. Perhaps it was that wedding ring over there, or the yellowing paperback in the corner. It didn't matter what it was, only that she left it there; letting go of Byron's memory so that she could begin to move on with her life. Walter stared at the leavings of generations of men, women, and children with the quiet awe one might feel upon entering a temple. Any sound above a whisper might offend whatever providence watched over it.

A faint rustle made Walter start to turn his head, but he made himself stop. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth; he knew what lurked outside the entrance. Walter pretended not to have heard. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of white latex. He unfolded the strange fabric, watched the black shapes slowly morph across its surface.

_Once you leave something there_, the whispered legend stated, _it's there to stay. You never return, not to take it back __or even to look at it. It stays—the object and its meaning—forever._

Walter placed Rorschach's face between a rusty bottle opener and a ratty teddy bear with a missing eye, then he turned away and crawled out of the cave's opening without a backward glance. There was no immediate sign of his audience outside. Walter stood, turned, looked up. Danielle clung to a thick overhanging branch, her upside-down face warily somber. Father and daughter regarded each other, yin to yang, blue eyes to blue. Then Walter smiled, reached out to take hold of his daughter. The girl relaxed her arms' and legs' grip on the branch when she felt his arms beneath her back, trusting him not to let her fall. For a moment she experienced the distantly familiar sensation of being cradled in her father's arms, staring up into his loving face; small, vulnerable, and utterly safe. Then he gently set her down and the moment was over. They wordlessly held hands as they headed for home, neither sparing a backward look for the tree and its hidden trove.

A scattering of snowflakes fell from the clouding sky; a late-autumn flurry, there and gone in minutes. Danny released her father's hand and ran ahead, hands outstretched as if to catch the tiny white crystals, voice rising in laughter. Walter smiled as he watched his daughter's innocent joy. He could live in this moment forever.


	11. In His Lonely Hall

**A/N: **The poem is _On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness_ by Arthur Guiterman. It really puts things into perspective, especially where Ozymandias is concerned. I named his computer Thoth because the dictionary lists him as the Egyptian god of writing and wisdom; the kind of pedantic name Veidt would give a talking computer.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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_The tusks that clashed in mighty brawls_

_Of mastodons, are billiard balls._

_The sword of Charlemagne the Just_

_Is ferric oxide, known as rust._

_The grizzly bear whose potent hug_

_Was feared by all, is now a rug._

_Great Caesar's bust is on a shelf,_

_And I don't feel so well myself._

Adrian Veidt, once known to the world as Ozymandias, stared at the wall of television screens, slumped in his gilded throne. More and more he spent his days in Karnak, his Antarctic retreat, the damages inflicted upon it by his battle with his fellow Watchmen long repaired. Its magnificent halls echoed with the memories of his many sins, yet he could not bring himself to leave them. It was right that he should be so haunted. He knew this with the same fierce conviction that he knew the sins he committed were for the greater good. Absently, he reached down beside him only to find empty air where warm fur used to be. Sadness welled in him; even after all these years, he still expected to find his faithful Bubastis at his side. "Forgive me, girl," he whispered yet again. He rested his hands on his lap, forced his attention onto the flickering screens.

All was well, the news programs proclaimed as they had for the past decade. The world powers remained ever united in their ceaseless vigil for the return of Dr. Manhattan. The dedication ceremony for New York's memorial proved of great benefit, if only to remind the world of its losses and why they should continue to put all past differences aside. Even now, weeks later, several programs continued to show footage of the ceremony, and the similar events which took place in the stricken cities around the globe. They reaffirmed Adrian's belief that what he'd done was right.

A familiar face flashed before his eyes. Veidt grabbed his customized remote, clicked a combination of buttons until the image was blown up to encompass four of the screens. The corner of his mouth quirked. "Hello, Daniel."

There on the screens, the familiar visage of his former comrade, Nite Owl. Adrian knew he and Silk Spectre had changed their names so that they might safely continue their illicit crime fighting; even knew what the names were: Sam and Sandra Hollis. So quaint, they had to be Dan's idea. Veidt never bothered to interfere with their activities—though he could quite easily—because they were of no threat to him or the world's hard-won peace. Let them play superhero, if that was what made them happy.

In the weeks-old news footage which showed the milling crowds riding the ferry back to the mainland, Daniel's expression changed to shocked recognition as he stared at something well beyond the edge of the screen. He gripped a startled Laurie's wrist, pointed frantically at whatever he saw. Their mouths moved in soundless argument. Then Dan elbowed his way through the crowd and out of sight, dragging his wife behind him.

Adrian frowned. What on earth did he see that would make him so excitable? He flicked through the rest of the news footage, but was unable to find anything more with the two masks in it. Anyone else might have shrugged it off, but Adrian was not the sort who enjoyed finding things out of his control, however insignificant a detail. He rose from his throne, crossed the massive room to the nearest computer terminal.

_"Good afternoon, Adrian,"_ the artificial voice purred. At the same time, the worlds scrolled across the monitor in elegant script.

"Good afternoon, Thoth. I need you to collect all the security camera footage from the All Souls Lake memorial as well as the ferryboats from the day of the dedication ceremony."

_"Certainly, sir. Any particular span of time?"_

"The last half hour to when the final passengers debark, for now."

Thoth informed him of the estimated waiting time. Veidt settled down in his chair to wait. Moments later, the computer announced the data was successfully retrieved. Adrian pored through the reams of footage until he located Daniel at the moment that he glimpsed whatever it was that so enthralled him. Veidt switched to a camera-view with a different angle, calculated the trajectory of Dan's gaze and blew up the appropriate area on the screen. As it came into focus, Adrian felt his blood run cold. "No. This cannot be."

He switched to yet another camera angle, brought the image that caught his eye to the fore, cleaned it up into sharp focus. It could not be mistaken, yet Adrian still sought further confirmation. He had the computer pull up a photo, an old mugshot, placed it beside the new image. "Thoth, run a comparison to see if these two images are a match."

The two images were superimposed with interlacing triangles, calculating various angles and dimensions. _"The images are a 99.997% match."_ The numbers flashed on the screen.

Veidt slumped back in his chair. "Jon. You deceived me."

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"C'mon!" Wally shouted, dragging his suitcase out the door where it bounced along the sidewalk towards the waiting car. Daniel hurried after his son to pick the suitcase up before it got a hole worn in.

"Easy, kiddo. The town's not going anywhere." He loaded the suitcase into the trunk, ruffled his boy's hair. "Besides, it'll take a few days for us to get there."

"That's why we gotta get started _now_," Wally reasoned. He hopped back and forth on his sneakered feet in poorly contained excitement. _This is gonna be a fun trip_, Dan thought in weary amusement.

Mona and Laurie exited the house with their own suitcases, the latter locking the door behind them. "That's everything," Laurie announced, to Dan's relief and Wally's further elation. The family piled into the car and thus began their journey. Twenty minutes later they made their first stop at a convenience store so Wally could use the bathroom.

"Shoulda gone before we left," Mona chided.

"I didn't hafta go then," the boy protested as he refastened his seat belt. And they were off again.

For the most part, it wasn't too bad for the overactive boy. He played with his Gameboy, did activities in a booklet Mona thoughtfully provided, plus the family made regular stops to stretch their legs and let Wally burn off some excess energy with running and playing catch with his dad. The adults took turns behind the wheel, driving well past sunset and into the night. Wally dozed off, forehead mooshed against the passenger window, until someone gently shook him awake.

"C'mon, big guy," Laurie smiled at her drowsy son, "Let's get you into a proper bed."

They'd stopped at a hotel. Wally never slept in a hotel before. Too bad he was too sleepy to appreciate this momentous occasion. Mom and Dad got a room to themselves while Wally shared a room with Mona. Wally brushed his teeth with a minimum of effort, then flopped gracelessly into one of the beds. Mona drew the covers over him. "Good night."

"G'night," he mumbled, soon lost in deepest slumber.

In his dream he sat in the copilot's seat in the Owlship. His father was beside him, clad in his Nite Owl costume, while Silk Spectre stood behind the pilot's chair. With the matter-of-factness of a dreamer, Wally asked, "Are we there yet?"

Nite Owl pointed ahead. "Almost."

Wally peered through the circular window, but all he could see were clouds. "There's nothin' out there."

Silk Spectre grinned. "Maybe you'd see more outside."

With a shrug, Wally rose from his seat and went to climb the ladder to the overhead hatch. Once on Archie's roof, the boy squinted in the powerful wind and looked ahead. "Still can't see anything!" he complained.

His father's voice drifted from the open hatch. "Well, get higher."

At those words, Wally discovered that he wore a cape in this dream. He grabbed the trailing ends, the wind caught the span of fabric like a sail, and he felt his feet lift off the metal hull. The boy whooped in excitement as the wind carried him higher and higher until he broke through the clouds. He stared in awe at the stars that surrounded him, looked down through a gap in the cloud cover to the twinkling cities far below. Laughter bubbled from him as he sailed through the starry night.

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Thanksgiving Day. The whole house smelled like food, but nobody would let Danny eat anything. "Wait till all the guests are here," the grownups said. So the girl retreated to the less tempting outdoors to play with Blake. She flung the old yellow Frisbee across the yard. The agile German shepherd leapt to catch the disc before it could touch the ground and trotted back to the girl, tail wagging. All the while Nixon kept his vigil from the porch; not even the alluring scent of roasted turkey would stir the lazy dog from his spot.

The driveway was crowded with vehicles. It wasn't just he Dreibergs who were spending the holiday at the little blue house. Craig Danvers and Adam Leonetti were there, along with Lila Danvers, Henry Dobbins and his family, and Zane Dobbins and Deb Blascoe. When Zane and Deb arrived together, Danny noticed Momma and Auntie look at each other and smile, but neither of them said anything. It made Danny wonder why grownups kept quiet about things that everybody already knew.

The squeak of the screen door drew her attention. Seth Dobbins exited the house, paused to pat the indifferent Nixon on the head before descending the steps. "Hey."

"Hey," Danny replied.

The boy held up a piece of cooked meat, still steaming from the pot. "Got the turkey's liver. Wanna split it?"

Danny's stomach rumbled. "Sure." The two kids sat beside each other on the steps, chewing quietly. Blake, puzzled by this interruption, carried his Frisbee over and dropped it at their feet. When neither child moved to pick it up, the dog sighed and stretched out on the brittle grass. The smell of the liver enticed him, but the dog knew better than to beg for something he had no hope of getting.

"My dad says those two masks're comin' today," Seth declared nonchalantly.

Danny nodded, equally casual. "Yep."

"Think they'll bring their costumes?" His voice held a faint trace of hopefulness.

The girl shook her head. "Doubt it. Be cool, though."

"Yeah."

Nixon suddenly raised his head. _"Whuff!"_

The two kids perked up at the sound. They gazed avidly down the long driveway until a vehicle appeared. The kids leapt to their feet, ran into the house with excited shouts, all feigned indifference forgotten. "They're here!"

"Place looks crowded," Daniel remarked, parking the car behind a minivan. The engine's hum barely had a chance to fade before Wally unfastened his seat belt and jumped out of the vehicle with a whoop of excitement. The adults got out in a more leisurely manner. Several people exited the house and made their way down the driveway towards the new arrivals. Among them was the unmistakeable redheaded figure of Walter, his daughter trotting at his side. The former vigilante smiled, held out his hand. "Hello, Daniel."

Dan shook his friend's hand. "Hope we're not too late."

"Nah!" Craig replied from behind Walter, "Still got a ways to go before the bird's ready. Need help unloadin'?"

"If you don't mind. Walter," Dan indicated the boy at his side who remained uncharacteristically quiet, "This is my son. Wally, this is the man you're named after, my former partner and old friend."

"Hi," the boy meekly offered his small hand. Walter smiled, shook the proffered hand. "Hello."

Danny stepped forward without prompting. "Hi. I'm Danielle, but everybody calls me Danny, 'cept my dad."

The adults exchanged amused looks as the children solemnly shook hands. At that moment Mona approached the group, rubbing her palms against her skirt in nervousness. Dan was quick to introduce her. "This is Mona Baris, our son's nanny and honorary family member."

Walter nodded hello.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Both Dan and Walter frowned in puzzlement. Walter shook his head.

Mona licked her lips. "'Bout a year after the Keene Act was passed. I was trying to protect a friend from getting beat up by—" she glanced at the children, "—a bad man. I was a lot younger then, obviously. My hair was long and blonde with a purple streak…"

Walter's eyes widened. "I remember." He discovered them while out on patrol, still seething over the recent Keene Act which outlawed such activities. A pimp was beating up a volunteer social worker who spent her nights trying to save the lost souls on the streets who were selling their bodies for the continued escape of drugs. Apparently, she was a little too convincing for some individuals' liking. Rorschach was about to intervene when a garishly painted girl no more than fifteen or sixteen years old hit the man over the head with a wooden board she scrounged from a nearby dumpster. The pimp didn't take too kindly to that and went after the girl with a knife he'd drawn from his pocket. It was then that Rorschach stepped in. After he dealt with the pimp, he and the girl prostitute helped the social worker to the emergency room. When he left them he heard the girl promise the injured woman that she would turn her life around. Rorschach never believed it would happen.

Walter smiled. "You made it."

"Yeah," Mona smiled in turn, "Thanks to you."

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Veidt expanded his research to footage taken from the security cameras of surrounding businesses and parking lots. It wasn't long before he found what he was looking for; the red-haired ghost of Walter Kovacs climbing into a blue compact car. Veidt zoomed in on the license plate. "Thoth, find me the name and address of the person this car is registered to."

_"Right away, sir."_ A short while later, the name of Chloe Whitfield-Charleson appeared along with her current address.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Adrian murmured. What did this woman have to do with Rorschach? Could it be that he actually… No. Everything he knew about the sociopathic mask made the idea of him settling down patently absurd. More likely Rorschach spent the last decade biding his time, plotting his revenge on Veidt for the atrocities he committed. True, Rorschach was never much for planning ahead, preferring immediate, brutal action to careful preparation, but it was not impossible. Certainly more likely than the other thing. Still, who was this woman? And where on earth was Jubilation?

Adrian rubbed his chin in thought. _What could you be up to, my old comrade?_ "Thoth, show me the location of the town of Jubilation." Perhaps it was time to pay his old friend a visit.


	12. Old Foes

**A/N: **The opening dialog between Godfrey and Seymour as well as the excerpts from Rorschach's journal is taken directly from the Watchmen GN.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Adrian's hired investigators had little difficulty in finding the relevant information. Chloe Whitfield-Charleson, he was surprised to discover, originally lived and worked in a small free clinic in New York up until the day the bomb struck. Perhaps, the former mask mused, Rorschach went to her whenever he found himself seriously wounded in the course of meting out his brutal justice upon the various lowlifes of the city. A relationship of convenience sounded far more plausible than the idea of Rorschach in a romantic situation. Rorschach in love? Ridiculous!

Finding out more about the vigilante's incognito life within the town of Jubilation proved more difficult. People who lived in small towns were naturally wary of outsiders who asked pointed questions about certain members of their fellow residents. Hence, the investigators had to lie low and make their observations from a distance. Veidt stared at the wide computer screen as Thoth brought up the numerous photos and notes taken by the P.I.'s sent to his anonymous email account. It was in viewing these pictures that Adrian received the first blow to his preconceptions. Images of a cheerful blue house surrounded by a picket fence, a familiar figure hunched between the rows of a large vegetable garden, a maternal older woman (identified as Elsie Mayweather, Chloe's aunt), the handsome Chloe dressed in blue patterned nurse's scrubs…and a little girl. Adrian spent many long moments gazing at her photos. Auburn hair, freckled coffee/cream skin, and eyes as blue as the Pacific. There was no mistaking the resemblance; Rorschach and Chloe had a child together.

How could this be? Everything Veidt knew about his former colleague—and he knew a great deal more than Rorschach ever realized—made such an outcome so unlikely as to be nearly impossible. But nothing, Adrian reminded himself, was ever truly _impossible_. Still, this was damned unnerving.

Adrian ran the scenario through his mind. Rorschach encounters Chloe and, despite the mask's many deep-seated neuroses, actually falls in love (a feeling which appears to be mutual, but which Veidt wouldn't dwell on for fear of confounding himself all the more). Both survive the attack on New York, Rorschach because Dr. Manhattan secretly teleported him, Chloe for reasons Veidt had yet to ascertain. They reunite, run away to the out-of-the-way rural haven of Jubilation, and proceed to start a family. And Rorschach just…retired? No, Adrian's mind was flexible enough to believe many things, but not that. Never that. Rorschach would not simply give up, especially knowing what he knew. No, the vigilante was simply biding his time, as Veidt theorized to begin with.

His eyes were drawn once again to the face of the innocent child. For a brief moment Veidt actually considered leaving things as they were. Rorschach posed no more than a marginal threat, after all. Who in their right mind would believe a psychopathic brute like him over Adrian Veidt, philanthropist and owner of the world's largest, most respectable multinational corporation? But Veidt's usual dispassionate thoroughness quickly reasserted itself. Marginal or not, Rorschach's knowledge of the bombings' true instigator made him a danger to the world's continued peace. Mercy was a virtue Adrian could ill afford, given all that was at stake. Rorschach would have to be eliminated.

Where other powerful businessmen would hire outside professionals, Veidt invariably chose to commit the most distasteful tasks himself. His were the hands that ended the life of the Comedian, that set the devices which gave cancer to those once closest to Jon, that put the bullet in Moloch's brain so that Rorschach could be sent to prison. It was Adrian Veidt who pushed the fateful button that ended fifteen million innocent lives. All those most heinous sins were committed by him alone; the blood was entirely on his hands. Veidt believed this made him altruistic, even heroic. In truth, it was simply another manifestation of his twisted arrogance.

The most effective disguises were the simplest. A touch of dye to darken his blonde hair a shade, casual clothes, a newly grown goatee, and a nondescript car bought under an assumed name. Adrian climbed into his modest vehicle and left the still-healing city of New York behind him.

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November 1985…

Hector Godfrey, owner and editor of the _New Frontiersman_, looked up from the open filing cabinet to cast a sour glare at his assistant, just returned from the lunch run. "Ooohh, so you finally came back? What, did you go to Dimension X for 'em? Hm?"

The chubby redhead stared blankly at his employer. Godfrey rolled his eyes. "Seymour, Christ, I don't know…three million New Yorkers died and you weren't one of them."

Seymour, finally catching on, made a feeble attempt at defending himself. "I hadda go to the Burgers 'N' Bor—"

"Don't say it," Godfrey snapped, "Don't say that _word_. I'll eat food from the place if I must, but I won't have _Russian_ spoken in this office." He squinted suspiciously. "Seymour, don't you have anything to do?"

"Well, I was gonna _eat_."

"_Oh_ no," Godfrey slammed the filing cabinet's drawer shut for emphasis, "You got two more pages to fill before you eat, thanks to this goddamned ass-kissing Accord!" He spat the last word as if its utterance left a bad taste in his mouth.

Seymour protested weakly, "I thought your column…"

"Yeah, well, you thought _wrong!_ Nobody's _allowed_ to say bad things about our good ol' buddies the Russians anymore, so bang goes a two-page column!" The injustice of it all, when a red-blooded Republican couldn't even criticize America's oldest enemy… Not even abusing his gormless employee could ease his displeasure. "Get some filler from somewhere," he muttered, grabbing one of the styrofoam boxes from the fat kid's hands and heading for his desk.

Seymour ventured a suggestion, "Robert Redford says he'll be running for President in '88. We could run a piece on—"

"Seymour," Godfrey interrupted in a weary voice, "we do not dignify absurdities with coverage. This is still America, goddamn it! Who wants a _cowboy actor_ in the White House?"

In a moment of uncharacteristic wisdom, Seymour left the question unanswered. "Hm. Well, then I guess it's somethin' from the Crank File." He turned to the overflowing basket while his editor, losing interest, sat down to his greasy lunch.

"Yes, yes. Whatever's within your limited abilities," he muttered absently, throwing in the insult more from habit than genuine malice, "Just please let me eat my lunch in peace."

Seymour, who did not always know when to let sleeping dogs—or hungry editors—lie, asked, "Well, which piece should I run?" He bit into his burger, spattering ketchup across his smiley face T-shirt.

The older man snarled, "Seymour, for _God's sake!_ I'm asking you to take _responsibility_ for once in your miserable life, while I eat lunch! Is that too much? Go on." He waved a dismissive hand. "Just run whatever you want…I leave it entirely in your hands."

Shrugging, the portly kid peered into the basket. Looked pretty much like the usual stuff; lose pages written in sloppy hand, bulking manila envelopes with too many stamps on them, fliers from various ultra-conservative organizations and/or wacko religious cults (many so similar as to be nearly indistinguishable). But one item at the very top of the pile caught the young man's attention right away; a slim leather-bound volume with the word _Journal_ stamped on the cover in faded letters. Seymour picked up the book, flipped it open. He took a bite of his lunch with his free hand as he began to read the words written in a spidery scrawl.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 13__th__, 1985: On Friday night, a Comedian died in New York. Somebody knows why. Down there…somebody knows._

Seymour sat down heavily in his overburdened swivel-chair and read on, captivated by the harsh poetry of the author's words. His burger lay forgotten on a grease-stained editorial submitted by an old housewife who complained that kids were more respectful when they allowed corporal punishment in public schools. The young man's eyebrows rose as familiar names appeared.

_…Meeting with Veidt left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his own shallow, liberal affectations…Dreiberg as bad. A flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement. Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without personality disorders?…_

_…Only two names remaining on my list. Both share private quarters at Rockefeller Military Research Center. I shall go to them. I shall go and tell the indestructible man that someone plans to murder him._

"Holy shit."

"Seymour!" The chubby kid jumped in alarm, just barely stifling the squeal that threatened to erupt from him, thus reinforcing his porcine appearance. Godfrey scowled at the red-faced younger man. "Haven't you found anything, yet?"

"Uh…" He nervously held out the journal. From the look on the editor's face, he might have offered him a dead vole.

"What the hell is that?"

"I-It's Rorschach's journal," the kid blurted.

Impossibly, Godfrey's eyes narrowed even further. "Excuse me?"

"I swear to God, Uncle Hec—I mean, Mr. Godfrey—" The old man insisted on formality in the office. "It's Rorschach's journal!"

Godfrey snatched the slim volume from the younger man's grasp, opened to a random page.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 21__st__, 1985: Left Jacobi's house 2:35a.m. He knows nothing about any attempt to discredit Dr. Manhattan. He has simply been used. By whom? Russians seem obvious choice: Manhattan and Comedian both key military figures. But Comedian referred to an island…Doesn't fit._

Godfrey stared. This had to be some kind of hoax. _But if it isn't…_, a little voice teased. He turned to his anxious assistant. "Find something else."

Seymour blinked, "B-but—"

"Goddamn it, Seymour! I said find something _else!_" He settled down into his chair—_squeak_, went the aged springs—and turned to the first page in the book.

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Godfrey read the entire journal cover to cover, then read it again. By then Seymour had actually taken the initiative to close up shop, leaving only the light of the editor's desk lamp for illumination. Godfrey didn't so much as grunt in acknowledgment when the younger man called his farewell from the front door before he locked it. The editor had more important things to ponder.

Rorschach's journal. _The_ Rorschach! That alone made this simple tome a goldmine, but its _contents…_ By the time he finished reading the second time through a cold sweat made the editor's normally crisp white shirt cling to his back. Hector Godfrey would be the first to (grudgingly) admit his intellect was far from genius. He was also somewhat limited in his thinking, uncompromising in his conservative beliefs, and at times downright pigheaded. But he wasn't a fool. The things he read in the book, coupled with recent events, brought him to a dreadful conclusion.

It never made sense to him, Manhattan's attack on the world. Why, for God's sake? Zapping the planet for him would be equivalent to kicking over an anthill. Dr. Manhattan was many things—powerful, godlike, scary as hell—but one thing he _wasn't_ was petty. And killing all those millions of people with a wave of his omnipotent blue hand before departing was just plain petty. If he were prone to such gestures, he would've vaporized all those reporters who ambushed him instead of teleporting them into the parking lot (though Lord knew some of them were asking for it, especially that sneaky bastard Douglas Roth).

Veidt, however…

Godfrey swallowed nervously and undid his already loosened tie along with the top button of his shirt.

Veidt was working with Manhattan to develop a new kind of clean, infinitely renewable energy. Energy based on Dr. Manhattan's own transformed substance. Honestly, how big a difference was there between a reactor and a bomb?

But _why?_ Adrian Veidt was a pacifist, a humanitarian. He didn't even eat meat, for God's sake! What possible reason— And then the answer hit him with a force to turn Godfrey's guts to jelly. The end to all hostilities between the U.S. and Russia, which mere minutes before the first bombs detonated were on the brink of nuclear war, which in turn would have led to human extinction. The pacifist achieved World Peace at the cost of fifteen million lives worldwide.

"Sweet Jesus."

And Rorschach was onto this deadly scheme, but he hadn't figured it out fast enough. Veidt must have killed the masked hero in Antarctica. It was the only explanation. But he hadn't silenced him completely. Godfrey stared at the innocuous looking volume lying on his desk. Hot bile rose in the editor's throat. That mass-murdering bastard! The truth would be known. The _New Frontiersman_ would run its biggest headline: OZYMANDIAS DUPED THE WORLD! FALLEN MASKED HERO TELLS ALL IN JOURNAL! The people would take to the streets—

_Yeah, to hang you from the nearest telephone pole_, the smarmy voice of Reality spoke. Godfrey slumped in his chair. Goddamn it, but it was true. In the wake of the tragedy, Veidt's humanitarian efforts made the former superhero more popular than ever. He might as well have a halo floating over his head! Who was going to believe a (face it) two-bit right-wing periodical like the _Frontiersman_ over a virtual saint? But people had to learn the truth!

"And they will." He gathered the slender book to his chest, cast his eyes ceilingward. "I swear to you, Rorschach, and to the Almighty Himself, if it takes the rest of my life, I'll see that the truth about that murdering bastard gets out.

"Someday…"

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Ten Years Later…

As he drove, Adrian listened to the news on the radio. His earlier optimistic view towards the reaffirmation of the Accord suffered a minor crack when he heard the voice of Senator Dole over the airwaves.

_"It has been ten years since the tragedy which befell our world, and we have yet to detect any hint of Dr. Manhattan's possible return. While our collective governments pour _trillions_ of dollars into state-of-the-art orbiting sentinels, thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children continue to suffer the effects of poverty which worldwide peace has yet to eliminate…"_ The senator went on to decry the continued waste of valuable time, money, and resources poured into scientific programs which focused on defense from and attack on the aforementioned Dr. Manhattan, all of which could be used towards far more productive and realistic means such as stamping out hunger and combating the violent crime which still ran rampant throughout the world's major metropolitan areas.

Veidt frowned as he listened. He would have to do something to discredit the senator before his poisonous ideas spread. The last thing the Accord needed was someone proposing that their shared enemy would never return. Once the world's vigil ceased, it would only be a matter of time before the old animosities resurfaced. Veidt shook his head. He would take care of the senator once this other errand was done.

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Douglas Roth, executive editor of the left-wing publication _Nova Express_, pressed the button on his buzzing intercom and said in a bored voice, "Yes?"

Velma, his equally bored office assistant (they weren't allowed to call 'em secretaries anymore) replied, _"There's a 'gentleman' here to see you, Mr. Roth."_ He could practically hear the quotation marks bracketing the adjective._ "He doesn't have an appointment."_

Great, Roth sighed to himself, another crackpot walk-in. "This person have a name?"

Instead of Velma's sultry tones, a craggy smoker's voice crackled over the little speaker, _"Let me in, you goddamned bleeding heart."_

Roth quirked an eyebrow. He'd know that voice anywhere, much to his regret. What on earth was Hector Godfrey, petty dictator to the right-wing rag _New Frontiersman_, doing at the _Nova Express_? Curiosity got the best of him. "Let him in, Velma."

Godfrey barreled through the door, slamming it behind him with enough force to rattle the glass. Roth didn't so much as wince.

The years had been remarkably kind to both men. Roth's hair, graying at the temples to give him a distinguished appearance, was cut much shorter than it was in the 80's (much to Godfrey's relief, though he didn't approve of the mustache his old rival continued to sport on his thin upper lip); while Godfrey maintained his trim physique, though his own hair had thinned considerably in the last decade. Both men were well dressed, Roth in his modern tailored suit, Godfrey in his traditional white shirt, pressed pants with matching blazer, suspenders, and tie (all with labels proclaiming them to be made in the U.S. of A., by Gawd).

Roth indicated the empty chair before his desk. "Have a seat." Godfrey grudgingly did so. The two men glared at each other across Roth's sleek desk with hostility borne of long acquaintance.

"What brings you into enemy territory, Hector?" Roth finally asked, too intrigued by the man's visit to continue the staring contest, which would've lasted well into evening otherwise.

Godfrey tossed a stack of papers onto the desk. "This."

Roth once again quirked an eyebrow, then moved to pick up the papers which were bound together with a jumbo sized binder clip. They were photocopies taken from the pages of a small book, apparently someone's diary. Roth scanned the first entry. _Rorschach's Journal. October 13__th__, 1985: On Friday night, a Comedian died…_ Roth's eyes swiveled up to stare at the man seated across from him. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Just read the damn thing," Godfrey snapped, "_Then_ tell me if you think I'm joking."

"What, all of it?"

The conservative shrugged. "I have the time."

Roth frowned in irritation. He very nearly gave in to the temptation to tell the sonuvabitch to take a hike. But the knowledge that his opponent would never try something as childish as a fake Rorschach diary held his tongue. The two newsmen might not like each other, but they could at least respect each other's intelligence. Godfrey wouldn't risk being ridiculed by his enemy unless he really believed in what he was showing him. And whatever it was, it had to be huge, for beneath the perpetual scowl of disapproval on Hector Godfrey's face was a trace of what could only be described as desperation. He desperately needed Roth to believe this, whatever it was.

"Fine. If you want any coffee, just ask my assistant." With that, Roth leaned back in his chair and began to read. Hours drifted by, unnoticed. So absorbed was he in the spidery text, he didn't even notice when Godfrey lit a cigarette, thumbing his nose at all the THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING signs displayed throughout the building. Hector Godfrey propped his feet up on the desk, blew a lazy smoke ring over his head, and smiled.

When he finally finished, Douglas Roth carefully placed the copied journal on the very center of his desk and leaned forward onto his elbows, fingers interlaced. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Godfrey smirked. "Amen." He tapped his cigarette's ashes into Roth's candy dish, leaving the licorice allsorts with a gray patina. "So, you believe it." It wasn't a question. He could see in the man's eyes that he drew the same conclusion from the journal's contents that Godfrey himself came to a decade ago.

Roth stared intently at the other man. "How long have you had this?"

Smoke ring. Shrug. "Found it in the crank file right after the attack."

"And you've kept it quiet for _ten years?_"

Godfrey snorted. "C'mon, Doug. We both know nobody would believe a word of it if I'd published it back then."

"Then why now? And why show it to me?"

Godfrey lowered his feet to the floor, dropped his half-spent cigarette into his coffee cup, and placed both hands flat on the desk, leaning his weight upon them. "Because," he all but purred, "it's been ten years and _nothing's happened_. No Dr. Manhattan bogeyman has made his reappearance. High-profile men like Senator Dole are starting to question the Accord's constant vigilance. Adrian Veidt's becoming more and more reclusive, and his popularity's slipping. If this isn't the right time, then it's just around the corner."

Roth leaned forward until the two men's noses nearly touched. "But why," he repeated, "show this to me first?"

"Because," Godfrey grinned, "the book's claims will hold a lot more water with the public if it's published by _both_ of us."

Now it was Roth's turn to grin. The grin of a successful member of the media who knew he had the motherlode. But more than that, he would get to see Veidt pay for his evil deeds. If there was one trait both newsmen shared, aside from sheer stubbornness, it was the belief in justice being served. The more high profile, the better.

Hector Godfrey thrust out his hand, the gesture as much a challenge as an offer. "So?"

Despite their mutual dislike of each other, their differences in socio-political beliefs, and the fact that each thought the other to be a pompous asshole; in light of this, the biggest story of either of their lifetimes, there was no hesitation.

"I still hate your guts, you know."

"I know," Godfrey replied smoothly, "The feeling is _beyond_ mutual."

Douglas Roth completed the handshake.


	13. Assailant

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Wally sat in the crook of a thick, gnarled branch and marveled at the view. "How old's this tree?" he asked.

Danny, hanging upside-down from a higher, thinner branch, proudly replied, "Older than the town. More'n three hundred years!"

"Wow!" The boy tried to imagine living for such a span, quickly gave up. It was just too much for someone who still measured his years using less than both hands' worth of fingers.

Below the children, in the tree's encompassing shade, Nixon, the world's laziest dog, sprawled like a creature afflicted with a liquid spine. Like the hour hand of a clock, Nixon didn't so much move from place to place as spontaneously shift his position. This phenomenon only occurred when nobody was actually watching; a person could stare at Nixon for hours without seeing him so much as blink. Used to be, Nixon spent the bulk of his time on the front porch, but ever since Danny learned to walk it was not unusual to find the big dog near wherever the girl roamed. No one knew why; it certainly wasn't to keep her out of trouble.

Thanksgiving was, by the kids' humble standards, a roaring success. Everybody ate too much, lounged around to give their digestive systems a chance to catch up, then crammed in a slice or two of pie. The adults talked and talked like grownups always did while the kids, once they were sure they wouldn't throw up, went out to play. Danny discovered that she actually _liked_ this new kid, and not just because his parents were masked heroes. Despite his goofy nickname, Wally had no qualms over roughhousing and getting himself dirty, two qualities by which Danny measured all her friends. She, Wally, Seth, and Blake ran screaming and barking through the big yard while their relatives watched their antics from the windows and chuckled. After a while, Seth and Blake remained by the house, tossing and fetching the Frisbee respectively, while Danny decided to show her new friend some of the more interesting sights near her home.

Danny released her hold on the branch, somersaulted effortlessly, and landed feet first on the ground. Wally, less certain of his agility, descended to a lower branch and hopped down. He skipped-slid down the hill, paused at the base. "What's this?"

"What?" Danny asked. Wally didn't notice the tension in the girl's voice. He knelt, parted the curtain of overhanging grass.

"It's a cave!" He crawled in before Danny had a chance to protest.

"Wait!" She hurried down the slope, dropped to all fours to crawl after him.

"Whoa." Wally gazed at the cluttered surroundings. "The heck's all this?" He reached for a John Deere cap only to yelp in alarm when Danny smacked his hand away.

"Don't touch! This stuff ain't yours."

"But what's it all doin' here?"

Danny sat back on her heels, bit her lip in thought. Was she allowed to talk about this to someone who didn't live in Jubilation? Then again, his parents trusted him to keep their superhero activities to himself. "It's sorta secret."

"I can keep a secret," Wally responded in all seriousness.

"People leave things here to say goodbye to someone or something. Like…" She looked around, pointed at a toy tractor. "Maybe somebody's kid died, or their best friend moved away, an' that toy belonged to 'em."

"Oh." Wally pondered this. "You leave anything here?"

"Not yet," she hesitated, "But my dad did."

"Really? What'd he leave?"

Danny shifted uncomfortably. "Promise not t' touch it."

"Cross my heart," he did so, "Hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye."

Danny smirked. "An' eat a horse manure pie?"

"Eww! No way!"

"Only gotta do it if ya break your promise," she reasoned.

Wally grimaced. "Fine."

"Say it." Danny leaned towards him, repeated in a singsong voice, "Saayy it!"

Wally rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. "'Kay! Eat a horse manure pie. Gross."

Grinning triumphantly, Danny pointed. Wally inched over to the spot the girl indicated. His eyes were drawn to a clean white patch amidst the rust and dirt. He gaped.

"He left his Rorschach mask," Danny explained unnecessarily.

"That's awesome," Wally breathed.

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The kids returned to the house as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The late evening air grew colder as the warm yellow orb disappeared, driving the youngsters shivering indoors. Moments later Nixon appeared in his insulated doghouse as if by magic.

Most of the guests had already left; only the Dobbinses and Dreibergs remained, and the former were in the midst of preparing to head for home. Danny and Wally said goodbye to Seth while the adults said their own farewells. Then it was just Wally's and Danny's families. The hide-a-bed was set up in the living room while, up in Danny's room, the trundle bed was pulled out from its place beneath the daybed. The grownups smilingly pretended not to hear as the two kids chattered late into the night.

"Shame we'll have to leave tomorrow," Daniel sighed, "Those two really seem to be hitting it off."

"You could always come back here for Christmas vacation," Chloe offered. It took little, if any, persuasion to get them to agree.

Later that night as she lay beside her husband, Laurie mused over this strange turn of events in their lives. It was weird; the first time they came here, Laurie felt totally out of place. Now everybody welcomed her and her family like old friends. There were warm embraces and good-to-see-yous, as if they'd visited Jubilation for years rather than just a couple of times. It was a strange, enjoyable experience.

Masks, by nature, were the sorts of people who worked best alone or in very small groups, which was why teams like the Minutemen and the Watchmen, while inspiring to the public, just didn't work out that well in practice. Their extreme personalities and strong sense of independence led to inevitable clashes. Dan was something of an anomaly in that sense; an easygoing, stable guy who got along easily with others. Yet even he tended to prefer his own company to others. Hollis Mason, the original Nite Owl, was much the same, which was probably why Dan was drawn to the persona to begin with. Birds of a feather, so to speak.

Which made their holiday visit all the more unbelievable to Laurie. She reviewed the day in her half-asleep thoughts; there she was in a crowded room full of people she hardly knew, and she was _comfortable_. She probably shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, these people mellowed Ror-(Walter, she reminded herself) down considerably. _Maybe all the time I've spent around pushers and gangs and weirdos in costumes twisted my perceptions._ Maybe she just wasn't used to normal people. People who went to work, paid their bills, raised their kids, and didn't spend their off hours shooting each other. It was good to expose their son to such down-to-earth folks.

"What're you thinking about?" Dan murmured, startling her; she thought he was asleep.

Laurie sighed. "Wish we could stay here longer." And to her surprise, she found that she meant it.

In the dark, Dan smiled and hugged his wife to him. "Me too."

Upstairs, nestled in the trundle bed, a heavy-lidded Wally whispered, "Danny?"

"Hmm?" Came the sleepy reply.

Wally licked his lips. "D'you wanna be a superhero when you grow up, like your dad?"

Danny, her eyes closed, frowned in groggy thought. "Not like Dad," she decided, "But…yeah. I wanna be a hero."

"Me too." And with that, the boy rolled onto his side and drifted into sleep.

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Adrian did not enter the town by road. Instead, he parked his car in an empty field behind an overgrown windbreak and proceeded on foot. The crisp autumn air flooded his lungs with a pleasant burning sensation. Not a trace of pollution. He traversed the last few miles in long, easy strides, looking for all the world like a man on a carefree stroll. It was only as the first few houses came into sight that he began to move with more stealth. His investigators informed him well; he found the small blue house on the outskirts of the town with little difficulty. Hidden amongst the clustered trees of one of the surrounding windbreaks, Veidt observed the home of his quarry with a dispassionate eye. No sign of Rorschach; perhaps he was indoors. A tire swing moved listlessly in the breeze. Dead leaves and bare branches rattled and shushed. He could see the large mongrel dog sprawled on the porch. The animal seldom moved from that spot, so he was informed. The family also recently adopted a stray German shepherd, which was nowhere in sight. Perhaps it was out chasing the local wildlife. It hardly mattered; Veidt could handle a dog as easily as he could a man.

No sign of the compact car the woman drove, which meant she was at work at the local hospital. That left Rorschach, the old woman, and the little girl, for school was closed this day due to the Thanksgiving holiday. Adrian once again regretted the necessity of involving the innocent in this. He could not place the world at risk for a single child's life.

Veidt had a plan which he formulated throughout his journey. Now was the time to implement it. He stepped out of hiding and approached the house.

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Earlier…

Daniel and Laurie stared at the flat tire, their son safe and cozy inside the heated vehicle with Mona. Jubilation was well behind them. They were surrounded by empty fields and barbwire fences. Hardly the ideal setting for a problem such as this.

"Yep," Dan sighed, "It's a flat."

Laurie glared, in no mood for his flippant humor. "Aren't you gonna get the spare?"

Daniel grimaced, rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"

His wife narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"I kind of…forgot to reinflate it."

Laurie shifted her position to face him. "When was the last time you did?"

"Since…never."

"Dan!" she threw up her hands, "We've had this car for three years! You never once thought to check the damn spare?"

"Well, I've kinda been busy, honey."

"Great." She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her new cellphone, which she still didn't entirely trust. "Guess that means triple-A."

"Uh, about that…"

Laurie closed her eyes. "You never signed us up."

"I was getting around to it."

_I am _not_ going to lose my temper._ Laurie inhaled a deep breath of country air. She opened her eyes. "I don't suppose you know anybody we could call?"

Dan smiled, held out his hand. Laurie tossed him the cellphone. He dialed the number—he was always good at memorizing numbers—and hit send. There was an answer at the third ring. "Hey, Walter."

Minutes later Walter hung up the phone and smiled at his wife. "Daniel got a flat."

Chloe laughed in sympathy. "Guess I'm gonna be late for work today."

"Sorry."

"It's alright. Lila suggested I might want to take the day off to recuperate from yesterday, anyway." She called the town doctor while her husband threw on his coat and grabbed the car keys. With a final wave, he left the house.

The first sight to greet him as he pulled up beside the stranded vehicle was Daniel's embarrassed smile. "We got everything we need," he explained, "It's just that the spare needs some air."

Walter retrieved a boxy device from the trunk of Chloe's car.

"What's that?" Wally asked, head sticking out of the rolled-down passenger window.

"Portable electric pump." Walter plugged the device into the car's cigarette lighter, pressed a switch. The pump began to hum. "Takes a while to compress enough air."

"We're really sorry about this," Laurie said.

Walter shrugged. "No trouble."

When they finally got the spare inflated, Wally suddenly poked his head out of the window again. "Dad! I forgot my Gameboy!"

The adults looked at each other. Laurie chuckled wearily, rolled her eyes heavenwards. "Guess somebody up there doesn't want us to leave just yet."

Walter's mouth quirked. He headed for the compact. "Give you an escort."

"Thanks," Dan sighed, "I'm really sorry to be such a hassle."

Walter tossed a smile over his shoulder as he climbed into his car. "Brings back memories."

Dan chuckled, then frowned. "Hey!"

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"Face it," Chloe groused, straightening with a groan, "We're never gonna fit it all in this fridge."

Elsie refused to be stymied. "We just have to figure out the right order—"

"Els, it's just too much. We need to throw something out."

The old woman stared at her niece, affronted. "Waste perfectly good food?"

Chloe snorted. "What, like that three-bean salad no one's ever gonna touch?"

"_I'll_ eat it."

"No you won't. It'll just sit there until some strange new form of life evolves and walks off on its own."

Elsie glowered at the overflowing fridge, lips pursed. "Maybe if we stack the side-dishes over here…" She grabbed a couple of Tupperware containers and proceeded to wedge them into a difference space. The doorbell chimed. "You gonna get that?"

Chloe rolled her eyes, turned, and exited the kitchen. As she traversed the living room towards the front door she noticed her daughter crouched in front of the TV. "Scoot back, Danny. You're gonna wreck your eyes sitting that close."

Danielle sighed, scooted back a mere four inches, her eyes riveted to the screen where animated turkeys cavorted as they taunted the inept pilgrims with their oversized blunderbusses.

Chloe opened the door, expecting a neighbor to lived within walking distance—for she hadn't heard Nixon's habitual _whuff—_and instead found herself confronting a tall, blonde man she'd never seen before. At least, she thought so, but there was something about the man's almost too-perfect features that tickled at the back of her mind. "Er, yes?"

"I am sorry to disturb you," the man said in a pleasant, faintly accented voice, "but my car has broken down a few miles from here and yours was the nearest house. Might I trouble you for the use of your phone?"

Chloe raised an eyebrow. "I suppose."

The stranger flashed a warm smile. "Thank you." He entered the house, careful to wipe his feet on the welcome mat. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong, square jaw and firm stomach. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. His hair and close-trimmed goatee were unblemished with gray. Only the telltale crow's feet at the corners of his eyes hinted at his true age. The man's physique reminded Chloe of one of those Greek sculptures. He thrust out a hand. He wore driving gloves. "Alexander Russell."

"Chloe." She took his hand in a firm grip. _Where the hell have I seen him before?_ "Phone's in the kitchen. This way." She led him through the house. Danny threw a curious glance over her shoulder at the unexpected arrival. The stranger smiled and waved, which the girl absently returned. Like her mother, Danny was troubled by the man's appearance.

"Seems like the day for car troubles," Chloe remarked as she led the man to the kitchen, "My husband's helping some friends who got stranded a ways out with a flat tire."

"Oh?" With the woman's back to him, she did not catch the flicker in his eyes. But the child did. She rose, trailed behind the two adults, holiday cartoons forgotten.

Elsie, hearing them enter, straightened from her ongoing battle with the fridge and grimaced as her back emitted a faint pop. She offered the newcomer a friendly smile. "Hi, there."

"Hello." He offered his hand once again. "Alexander Russell."

"Elsie Mayweather. Pleased to meet you, Alex." The old woman nodded towards the doorway. "That munchkin behind you's Chloe's daughter, Danielle. Say hello to the man, Danny-girl."

"H'lo," the girl mumbled, uncomfortable with the man's intense stare. It was like her father's, only devoid of emotion. She suppressed a sudden shiver.

Chloe unhooked the phone's receiver from the wall. "I can call the local mechanic at home. I'm sure he won't mind dragging out the tow truck."

"You're too kind, but I would prefer to place my own call." He smiled apologetically. "I'm terribly picky over who works on my vehicle."

A slight frown creased between the woman's eyebrows. She shrugged, started to pass him the phone. "Have it your way."

As the man reached for the receiver, the forgotten TV switched to a commercial, an ad for Millennium perfume. _"This is the time," _the bodiless voice crooned over the signature music, _"These are the feelings. Millennium, by Veidt."_ And Chloe's eyes widened as it all fell into place.

Veidt met the woman's gaze with his own. "You know," he stated, voice heavy with regret. Instead of the receiver, he grabbed her wrist with his gloved hand. "That is most unfortunate."

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He was a benevolent captor. He sat the three of them down on the sofa, side by side, their wrists and ankles bound in such a way that they wouldn't chafe too badly, their mouths taped shut. Tears streamed down their faces. The little girl huddled against her mother, her small body quaking in fear. The old woman glared defiantly, while the child's mother focused her attention on the terrified girl.

Veidt sat on the carpeted floor in the lotus position, eyes half-closed, face serene. Held in his right hand in a loose grip was one of Elsie's kitchen knives, its clean blade honed to razor sharpness. He did not speak to the family he held captive; did not want to frighten them any more than necessary. He told them he only wanted Rorschach; a lie that offered them some meager hope and might ensure their docility. He needed to keep them alive in order to control Rorschach. Now that he had time to consider it, this situation was far better than what might have happened if Rorschach were present. Veidt would much rather ambush him than confront him head-on, even though he knew he could easily defeat the former mask in a fight. This way was less of a hassle.

He had a plan: Poor Walter Kovacs, his troubled mind left in turmoil thanks to his encounter with his former crime-fighting partner, would kill his family in a fit of rage and afterwards, consumed with guilt, would take his own life. Simple, believable, effective. And none would ever know of Veidt's presence here.

From outside came the faint sounds of approaching vehicles. Veidt rose to his feet in a single fluid motion and turned towards one of the windows that faced the front lawn. "I take no pleasure in this," he murmured to the terrified family behind him, "But it must be done. For the greater good."

With their hands bound behind them, they kept their activities hidden. With agonizing care, feeling the complicated knots with blind fingers, the two women worked to undo the cord around the little girl's wrists. It took all of Danny's willpower not to utter a sound as she felt the bindings loosen. With infinite slowness she freed her hands, reached slowly down to untie her ankles.

Veidt, still gazing out the window, tapped the flat of the blade against his thigh, the only visible sign of his internal anguish. Killing the Comedian was easy; the man was a despicable lowlife no better than the people he murdered for his government. Setting off the energy bombs, while morally painful, was also quite easy, as it all happened at a distance. But killing this helpless family, that innocent little girl…Adrian knew this would haunt him for the rest of his days. A sacrifice to the altar of Peace. He turned from the window, approached the trio on the couch. Perhaps if his conscience hadn't distracted him he might have noticed the loosened cords around the girl's ankles. But he didn't notice. Veidt gripped Chloe's arm, helped her rise to her feet. "I will need your help to make sure your husband behaves himself," he explained as he maneuvered the woman to stand in front of him, both facing the door. He held the knife up to her neck, wrapped his other arm across her chest to hold her in place.

Danny leapt to her feet. By some miracle, the loosened cords didn't trip her up as she made her mad dash for the door. At the same time, Chloe threw her weight back, knocking Veidt off balance for a few precious seconds before he managed to shove her aside. The woman landed on the floor with a loud thud. She kicked out with her legs, tried to trip him, but Veidt jumped over them with hardly a pause.

Danny's hand closed over the doorknob, twisted, flung the door wide open (Veidt was amazed to discover the front door didn't possess a lock; one of the marvels of a small rural town). She could see the blue compact pulling into the driveway, the Dreiberg's vehicle close behind. She tried to shout, but the duct tape wrapped around her head muffled the sound. She was on the porch, racing for the steps—and felt herself lifted off the ground, kicking desperately. Felt cold steel pressed against her throat. Terror froze her, overwhelmed her thoughts so she didn't even feel ashamed when she felt warm wetness soak through her pants. Danny stared wide-eyed at the sight of her father getting out of the car, his face a mask of horror.

_Daddy!_


	14. Conflict

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_

_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned;_

_The best lack all conviction, while the worst_

_Are full of passionate intensity._

_—from "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats_

Mona looked out at the passing countryside and sighed to herself. "I love road trips."

In the front seats, Laurie and Dan continued their minor bickering. "I still can't believe you forgot to check the spare," Laurie muttered, "You're all about being prepared. You keep two flashlights in the glove compartment, for god's sake."

Dan sighed, "I'm only human, honey. I'm allowed to let something slip from my mind once in a while. Besides," he added with only the faintest smirk, "I'm not the one who forgot to take the safety off her gun."

"That happened _one time_," Laurie snapped, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, "And those were extenuating circumstances." It was early in their new partnership. They'd chased a small group of Knot-Tops and found themselves caught in the middle of a sudden firefight between the Knots and the cops, and neither group had any compunctions about shooting a couple of masks. There they were, Nite Owl and the Silk Spectre, trapped behind a rusty dumpster. Spectre drew her gun to give her partner some meager covering fire and the damn gun wouldn't fire. She actually started smacking it against the dumpster, cursing in frustration, when Owl suddenly took the gun, gave it only a cursory glance, flicked the safety off with his thumb, and handed the weapon back with the barest smirk. Despite the chaos that continued to rage around them, Silk Spectre took a moment to say, "I'm never gonna live this down, am I?" Nite Owl shook his head.

In the backseat, Wally perceived his parents' voices as a vague drone in the background while he stared out the window and thought about nothing in particular. He shifted, frowned as something prodded him. His questing fingers wriggled into the seam where the backrest met the seat and encountered the distinctive hard feel of plastic. He grasped the offending object by its edge, pulled it out into view…and gaped as he discovered he hadn't forgotten his Gameboy after all. He glanced quickly to his nanny, seated beside him. Mona's gaze remained on the world outside the humming car. Mom and Dad hit a lull in their conversation and stared straight ahead at the blue compact leading them. Wally quickly shoved the Gameboy into his jacket pocket, too embarrassed to say anything. He decided rather than confess his mistake he would just rummage around the house for a minute or two and pretend to find it somewhere.

Minutes later, the house came into view. _Looks like somebody's excited to see us,_ Dan thought as he pulled up behind the blue compact. Young Danielle dashed through the front door. An instant later, a man rushed out and scooped up the struggling girl. It was then that Dan saw the duct tape over the girl's mouth and the gleam of metal as the man pressed something against her neck.

Laurie gasped, "Oh shit."

Dan swiveled in his seat. "Stay in the car," he ordered Mona and Wally, both too stunned to respond, then he and Laurie were out of the car and running to join Walter.

Walter was out of his car, running towards the house and his terrified daughter. The man held a shiny blade to the child's neck, his warning all too clear. Walter forced himself to halt, one foot on the porch's lowermost step. Behind him he heard two car doors open and the sounds of two pairs of feet pounding up the driveway. Daniel and Laurie. Walter threw his arms out to halt them at the same time as the man spoke with a horribly familiar voice. "Come no closer."

"Veidt," Walter rasped, lips pulled back in a snarl.

The world's smartest man regarded his former comrades with a cool stare, not allowing them to see his frustration at Dan's and Laurie's unexpected presence.

Walter looked at his daughter, her eyes wide, tears and snot running down her face and the duct tape covering her mouth. He saw the dark stain on her jeans and felt a flare of helpless rage. He focused his icy glare on the man responsible. "Let her go."

Veidt responded tonelessly, "Or?"

"For Christ's sake, Adrian!" Daniel exclaimed, "She's just a kid!"

None of them dared move any closer. Veidt could see their fear and anger, unable to use the physical strength which served them all so well for so many years. Useless. Impotent. _This is what I felt,_ he thought, _when I saw the world creeping ever closer to self-annihilation._ He pitied them. They lacked the conviction to do the things he did for the greater good.

"Rorschach," the name made the redhead wince ever so slightly, "It seems my faith in Jon's pragmatism was misplaced. All these years…"

"I'm not a threat to you," said Walter, his voice deceptively calm.

"Not to _me_," Veidt agreed, "but to my work." From behind him came the muffled shouts of the two women still bound and gagged inside the house. He could see the relief in his adversary's eyes before the fear and anger returned.

Walter's fists bunched at his sides, useless. Even in his prime he could never hope to defeat Veidt. Now he was a decade older and out of shape, and he had so much to lose. He looked at his daughter again, her eyes pleading. He wished he could lie to her, tell her everything would be alright. Having Daniel and Laurie at his back did nothing to reassure the former mask. Veidt would see them as a threat as well, would come after them, their son. None of them was safe anymore.

"Please," Walter heard the word emerge from his mouth without surprise or shame. One foot was on the bottom step. He shifted his weight onto it, rose slowly until both feet were side by side on the step. Veidt didn't even tense up. "Please," Walter repeated, "don't hurt her. I won't fight you." He lifted his foot, rested it on the next step, rose. "Do what you want with me. Just let my family go."

_"Walter,"_ Daniel whispered harshly, he and his wife tense with the certainty of the tragedy to come and helpless to prevent it.

Veidt didn't move, didn't flinch as Walter ascended the third and final step. They stood before each other, less than a foot of space between them. Walter craned his neck to meet the taller man's gaze. His his hands remained loose at his sides, no longer clenched. Veidt stared into the redhead's eyes and saw acceptance. In a lightning swift move he brought the knife to Walter's throat—and froze.

Danny screamed through her duct tape gag. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. A thin trickle of blood ran down her father's deck, nicked by the razor-sharp edge. She squirmed in the man's tight grip, kicked back so her heels struck his legs, reached up to grasp his wrist and tried to pull the knife away from her father's neck. She might as well have tried to bend a steel bar, for all the effect she had.

"What are you waiting for?" Walter rasped, echoing the words he uttered to Dr. Manhattan long ago.

Adrian's eye twitched, so faintly it might have been missed by someone who wasn't looking closely. This was not the Rorschach he remembered; the cold, brutal, soulless figure who lurked in dark corners and filled the city nights with death. A faceless mask. Veidt would have felt no qualms over ending such a life. Instead, he had to push away the doubts that began to rise in him. "For what it's worth," he murmured quietly, "I am sorry."

Walter felt the blade's edge bite into his flesh…

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_Once upon a time _(as Elsie would say, were she the one telling this)_ there was a puppy; the ugliest animal on God's green earth. He was so ugly that nobody wanted him. When all his brothers and sisters were adopted by the happy little boys and girls who came by, the ugly puppy remained. Then one day a man arrived who smelled of sweat and engine grease. He looked over the ugly pup, the blocky head, the squared muzzle and broad jaws, and said, "He'll do." And so the puppy went to live in a junkyard where the smelly man taught him how to use those jaws on unsuspecting intruders. The ugly puppy grew up to be an even uglier dog, all wrinkly skin and droopy lips. His world was confined to the junkyard, jagged edges and rotting upholstery, the stink of oil and smog, the taste of rust and ash. In daylight the dog lay in his oil drum/doghouse and slept the hours away, while at night he drove off foolish interlopers with his roaring barks and sharp teeth, for beneath the floppy folds of skin were pounds of hardened muscle, and his square, blunt jaws contained enough strength to crush bone. The ugly dog was neither happy nor sad. He had everything he needed and nothing he wanted._

_Then the smelly man died and strangers came to claim what was once his. When they saw the ugly dog in his barrel/house they said to the youngest of them, "Take that mutt to the pound."_

_But the youngest stranger, who was kind but not terribly smart, thought _Nobody's ever gonna adopt that ugly bastard. The shelter'll wind up putting him down._ And so, with kind, yet misplaced intentions, the youngest stranger took the ugly dog out to the country—with no food and no water—and left him there. For days and days the ugly dog wandered, surrounded by green things and fresh smells that left him feeling more lost than he'd ever felt before. His belly was empty, his throat dry. He walked until his paws were sore. Then, one day, he saw a house and an old woman hanging her laundry to dry. The woman didn't seem surprised to see a large, hideous, half-starved dog approach. She rested her hands on her hips and declared, "You are the sorriest sight these old eyes have ever beheld."_

_The old woman fed the ugly dog, then bathed him with such thoroughness that all trace of his former junkyard smells were scrubbed away. She gave him no commands to guard, so he didn't, for though he was diligent when ordered, he was a lazy dog. He sprawled on the porch or curled up in his doghouse, snoozing the years away in comfort and plenty._

_But he never forgot his original purpose._

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It's amazing all the what-ifs that could have happened. If Daniel hadn't forgotten to refill the spare, if Wally had found his Gameboy wedged between the seat cushions before he declared it missing, if Veidt had been just a _little_ less distracted by his burgeoning guilt, things would've gone differently.

Walter felt the blade's edge bite into his flesh…and gasped as the knife jerked aside, leaving a shallow cut on his throat. Adrian's body lurched to the side, struck by a great weight. Powerful jaws clamped around the arm which held the girl. Danny thrashed and slipped from her captor's loosened grip, scrambled across the porch and out of reach. Walter lunged forward, grabbed Veidt's knife-wielding arm. Dan and Laurie ran up the steps. Before they reached him Veidt kicked, his foot connecting with Walter's stomach, knocking the redhead away, then swung his freed arm around and buried the knife's blade in Nixon's side. Instead of weakening, the dog's jaws tightened their unbreakable hold. Their was a faint crackling sound. Veidt roared. He saw the others approach and spun, swinging the tenacious dog like a giant club. Laurie dodged aside, but Daniel was not as quick. The large dog's body struck him with enough force to send him somersaulting down the porch steps. Laurie found her blows blocked by Veidt's free arm, her kicks swept aside by his swift legwork, and then Walter was there to add his fists. It had been years since he fought, but his body remembered. The two of them managed to connect a few times, thanks to Veidt's being hampered by a 170 pound dog latched onto his arm. But then he knocked Laurie down with a well aimed kick, hit Walter with a sudden uppercut. Daniel leapt up the steps once again, rained a series of punches on Veidt's side around the anchoring dog. Veidt reached down, yanked the knife from Nixon's side, causing a gout of blood. Daniel barely managed to move quickly enough to avoid the hurled blade which imbedded itself in the floorboards.

Inside the Dreibergs' car, Mona, desperate to do something, grabbed Laurie's purse from the front passenger seat and rummaged through it until she found the cellphone. While his nanny dialed 9-1-1, Wally gaped at the violent scene before him. It was all too surreal for him to experience any fear; his mom and dad in their casual clothes fighting tooth and nail on their friend's porch. So fast he was afraid to blink lest he miss something. He saw Danny inch her way past the battling adults and into the house, perhaps to help her mother and great-aunt. Wally could hear Mona's voice beside him as she frantically spoke to the emergency operator, but her words seemed a meaningless drone. The boy was too caught up in what was happening just a few yards away.

Nixon, dizzy and weakened with blood loss, felt consciousness slipping away. His hold on Veidt's armed loosened as he slumped to the ground. Veidt held his wounded arm against his side. Without the massive, furry anchor to hamper him, he moved with the same terrifying agility the others remembered from their last confrontation. It wasn't long before they realized that, even injured and outnumbered, he was still more than a match for them. Again and again they fell or were knocked aside, their own swings and kicks seldom connecting. Flesh bruised, eyes blackened. Laurie cried out as blood fountained from her nose, blinding her for a few precious seconds. Veidt uttered a brief scream as Daniel landed a lucky blow on his broken arm and retaliated with a vicious kick to the midsection.

Inside the house, Danny grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen and used it to saw through her mother's bindings. Chloe wriggled free, peeled the tape away from her mouth and did the same for her daughter. "Help your auntie," she said to the frightened child in a steady voice that surprised even her, "Then call Hank." She got to her feet, grabbed the poker from the rack beside the woodstove, and headed for the door.

Outside and some distance away, Blake, in the middle of digging up a small burrow belonging to an unknown creature with an interesting smell, heard distant voices shouting in rage and fear. Troubled, the German shepherd abandoned his minor hunt and raced back to the house. He did not pause as he took in the sight of the Man and his friends fighting an intruder. He saw the intruder's hand dart out and down, saw it raise again with a bloodied knife it its grasp, slashing and jabbing. Daniel cried out as the blade sliced open his arm. Veidt spun, brought the knife around to stab the oncoming Walter. Blake gained the porch steps and jumped as high as he ever did when catching his Frisbee. Unlike Nixon, the former stray had no training. Instead of the arm, he went for the neck. Veidt saw the danger coming and hastily changed the direction of his stab. Blake felt a fiery pain graze his side as his forepaws connected with the intruder's chest. The force of the dog's strike sent Veidt stumbling back. Jerking away from the animal's snapping jaws only unbalanced him further and he felt himself tipping backwards. He landed on his back with a loud _oof_. A woman loomed upside-down in his view, face contorted in rage. Chloe raised the poker two-handed, swung it down towards the fallen man's head. Veidt was forced to release his hold on the knife to catch the descending poker in his good hand. Blake darted forward, snarling. His jaws closed around the broken arm which Veidt raised to protect his neck. The man cried out in pain and frustrated anger. His foes mercilessly rained blows upon him, shouting and striking, kicking and snarling. Chloe yanked the poker free, raised it again. Veidt jerked his head aside and received a glancing blow from the heavy implement. He kicked out, knocking his opponents back long enough for him to leap to his feet. He easily dodged Chloe's desperate swing and landed a punch which caused the woman's head to snap back and her body to topple. Veidt snatched up the poker, brought it up to fend off the next onslaught.

Meanwhile, a newly freed Elsie grabbed her grandniece's arm and hurried to the kitchen where she grabbed the phone and quickly dialed the number for the sheriff's office. "Ceecee," she spoke in a quavering voice, "It's Elsie. We need—"

_"I know, Els,"_ the dispatcher interrupted, _"We got a 9-1-1 call patched through. Hank's on his way."_

Blake darted in and out snapping at whatever part of Veidt he could reach. Veidt swung the poker, struck the snarling dog. The German shepherd yowled as he was knocked aside, only to leap to his feet and rush back in, teeth bared in a horrific grimace.

Veidt suddenly realized in growing dismay that his reactions were slowing; too subtly for his opponents to notice, perhaps, but he felt it all the same. Not even he was entirely immune to the passage of time, the onset of age. As he retreated farther into the house the others moved to surround him.

"The police are on their way," said a quiet voice behind him. Veidt risked a glance behind him, saw Elsie standing in the kitchen doorway with a telephone receiver in her hand.

"Give it up, Adrian," said Daniel, voice heavy with weariness. He and his compatriots practically wheezed from exhaustion, yet Veidt knew they would continue fighting until they could no longer move, if necessary. Walter gripped the snarling German shepherd's collar, restraining the animal. Through the open front door came the distant sound of approaching vehicles, sirens blaring. Everything was falling apart. How could this be? How could he have succeeded in a plan that affected the entire world, yet failed miserably at a simple task as this?

Outside, two vehicles ground to a halt and four uniformed figures piled out, weapons trained on the house. One of the pairs maneuvered around to the back of the house to cover the rear exit. Sheriff Henry Dobbins called out in his most authoritative voice, "This is the police! To the intruder inside the house, come out with your hands up!"

Veidt's mouth twisted in a grimace that might have been a rueful smile. "I am not accustomed to failure." A strange lethargy overcame him. The fire poker sagged in his grip, but he did not release it. The others remained tense, watchful for any sudden move.

"Adrian," Daniel spoke again in a voice tinged with sympathy, "It's over."

Veidt shook his head. "I can easily evade capture."

"We'll tell them it was you," Walter threatened.

"It would be my word against yours," he smirked, "Are you willing to risk the authorities discovering your true identity on the slim chance that they might believe you?"

"How are you gonna explain your arm?" Laurie retorted, "Your blood and fingerprints all over this house?"

"If by some miracle this goes to trial," Veidt reasoned, "it would destroy everything I've worked for. The end to the threat of nuclear war. The Accord. It would make the deaths of all those fifteen millions souls for nothing. Their sacrifice meaningless."

"It's already meaningless." Chloe, her face bruised and swollen from the hit she took, struggled to her feet. Despite her muddled head, she glared at the man with a hard, steady gaze. "Everything the Accord stands for is a lie. It was doomed to fail from the beginning."

Veidt shook his head sadly. "You would prefer humanity's extinction?"

"It might not have come to that," she answered, equally sad, "But now we'll never know. You stole our right to choose. Even God understood after Sodom that human destiny can't be forced. For better or worse, we have to decide for ourselves how it will end. What you did was beyond arrogance." A tear rolled down her cheek. "Your brand of peace is an abomination."

"You do not understand," Veidt said pityingly.

"This is your last warning!" Sheriff Dobbins shouted from outside, "Come out with your hands up, or we'll be forced to take action!"

"You willing to fight the cops, Adrian?" Daniel asked.

Veidt did not respond. He stood there, tense, expectant. His broken arm throbbed.

Elsie suddenly spoke. "You _want_ to be caught."

For a moment everyone looked at the old woman in surprise.

"And why," Veidt asked, "would I desire such a thing?"

"Because you know you should be punished for what you did."

The former mask's expression hardened. "I did what was right," he said barely above a whisper, "What had to be done." His grip on the poker tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"Like invading our home?" Elsie asked solemnly, without rancor, "Holding a little girl at knife point until she pissed herself?"

A fearful Danny peered around her auntie. Veidt met the child's gaze and for a brief moment his cool façade showed a crack. His poker-wielding arm sagged ever so slightly. It was all the opening Walter needed. He dashed forward, grabbed the distracted man's arm and kicked his legs out from under him. Blake rushed forward, growling and snapping. Veidt kicked the animal away and froze as he felt the poker's sharp point against his throat. He stared up at his adversary with a strange sense of relief. "Go on then," he murmured, "End it."

Henry and his deputies entered the house, weapons pointed at the downed man. Walter shook his head. "Won't let you off that easy." He pressed down hard enough to leave an impression on Veidt's skin, his lips pulled back in a snarl. "You're going to see all your 'work' crumble around you." With that, he stepped back to let the police take over. Veidt offered no resistance as he was rolled onto his stomach and his wrists cuffed behind his back.

"Adrian Veidt," Henry stated, scarcely able to believe what he was saying, yet maintaining a coolly professional demeanor, "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…"

Walter went to Chloe, cradled her face in his hands. "If there's a trial, I'll have to testify."

"I know." Her chin trembled.

He rested his forehead against hers. "They'll find out about me."

"I know," Chloe sobbed. She wrapped her arms around her husband, pulled him close. "Whatever happens, I'm with you. No matter what."

As Veidt was taken away, Danny ran to her parents. Walter drew away from his wife and scooped his daughter into his arms. She clung to him, trembling, yet unable to cry through the shock. She felt her mother's hand on her back, a soft kiss on her temple.

Outside, once he saw Veidt placed in the backseat of one of the deputies' vehicles, Wally jumped out of the car and ran up the porch steps, ignoring Mona's shout. He knelt beside the motionless mountain of wrinkly skin and fur that was Nixon. Blood oozed from the wound in the dog's side. Wally pressed his hands against it, felt the warm wetness seep between his fingers. He pushed down as hard as he could. "Help!"

Mona reached his side when the others came out onto the porch. Elsie gasped, hurried to kneel by her dog. She lifted Nixon's blocky head onto her lap. The old dog gave a faint whine. Chloe went inside to call Michael Henderson, then returned with a towel to wrap around the dog, tying it in a tight makeshift bandage. She also handed Danny a clean pair of pants to change into. Walter and Daniel crouched to lift the heavy animal and carry him to the car, heedless of the blood that stained their already ruined clothes. The rest of the two families followed wordlessly. Daniel, Laurie, Wally, and Mona piled into their own car to follow the blue vehicle to the vet's. Blake remained on the porch, whining at being left behind. He slowly lowered himself to a sprawl on the porch and watched the cars disappear into the distance, while behind him the still-open front door swung in an errant breeze, forgotten and forlorn.

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**A/N:** I had a helluva time figuring this chapter out. For a while I was afraid I'd written myself into a corner. I'm honestly not sure if I like the end result or not, but at least I got everything I wanted in it. I hope you'll all take the difficulty I had into consideration, and if you decide to review, please be gentle. I'm very fragile. ;-)


	15. Dark Thoughts

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Dr. Michael Henderson was appalled by the sight which greeted him at his vet clinic, not just the wounded Nixon, but the two battered families. Walter and Daniel, both bloodied and bruised, carried the large dog's limp body into the clinic and placed him gently on the exam table. Michael gaped at them. "My god! You should all be at Lila's place getting patched up."

"I'll stay here," said an unharmed Elsie, "if that's alright."

Michael nodded, already busying himself with Nixon's stab wound. Chloe used his phone to call the town doctor and inform her of the situation.

Only now, when there was nothing left to distract him, did Walter's pain fully register. His ribs ached each time he breathed, his body a mass of bruises and scrapes. During his time under the mask, he'd shrugged off such injuries and worse. But now he was in his fifties. Everything hurt.

Dan and Laurie weren't much better. Laurie suspected her nose was broken and one of her knees felt like it might buckle at any moment. As for Dan, he strongly suspected he broke more than a few bones in his hands, not to mention the nasty knife-slash on his forearm which only just started to clot.

Lila ushered the two families into her converted house which served as the town's small hospital and immediately set to work on the worst of their injuries. Laurie's nose was indeed broken, as were two of Daniel's fingers, and the cut on his arm required stitches. Lila got to work on the couple while Chloe tended her husband. She cleaned the numerous cuts and scrapes on his face and taped up his bruised ribs to make breathing a little more bearable for him. Though bandaging was not strictly necessary, Lila understood that the nurse needed to keep herself busy and so made no remarks on this. While Chloe wound the thick gauze around Walter's torso her hands began to shake. Walter gently took her hands in his, steadying them. Through tear-blurred eyes Chloe saw how swollen and discolored his knuckles were.

"Chloe."

She met his concerned eyes. He released one of her hands to rest his calloused palm against her cheek which was marred by a darkening bruise from where Veidt struck her. "It's alright," he said.

For a moment Chloe's face crumpled, but she rallied herself, brushed away the few tears that escaped. "I know." She resumed bandaging.

Meanwhile Mona sat with the two kids in the small parlor that served as the waiting room. She made no attempts to distract her charges, knowing it would prove futile. Danny and Wally sat on opposite ends of an overstuffed couch, arms crossed and eyes cast down. Neither child spoke, each lost in his or her own troubled thoughts.

Danny wondered why she wasn't crying. It was as if everything that just happened, the horror of Veidt's attack, left her numb inside. She stared at the array of toys left scattered throughout the waiting room; picture books, paper and crayons, Legos. On the coffee table stood one of those weird things made of different colored wires looping and zigzagging from one end of its wooden base to the other. The object was to move the large wooden beads along those loops and curves from one end of their colored wires to the other and back again. A simple distraction for little kids. Danny let her body slide off the couch and onto the carpeted floor. The edge of the coffee table was under her chin. She reached out to move a square bead along the orange wire, up and over the red and blue wires, spiraling down to the wooden base. Wally and Mona watched her without particular interest. She moved a train of multishaped beads along the meandering green wire. _Click-click-click._

Chloe finished taping Walter's ribs. She sniffed as her composure began to slip again. "Why do these things keep happening to us?"

Daniel unexpectedly spoke up. "I think…I think this might be my fault." The others looked at him in surprise. Dan slumped on the edge of the exam table, his miraculously undamaged glasses resting beside him, one of its spindly wire arms unfolded. "He must've somehow found out about me looking for you. If I hadn't been so obsessed…"

"This wasn't your fault," Laurie protested, voice distorted by her bandaged nose. She looked to the other couple for support, but they offered no response. Their silence hurt more than words of recrimination ever could. Daniel turned his head away so they wouldn't see his eyes well with tears. Laurie threw their friends an angry glare and moved to embrace her husband.

There came a polite knock at the door, then Henry entered. He approached the two couples, his expression solemn. "I need to get statements from all of you."

"Is he locked up?" Wally asked from the waiting room. Danny continued to move the beads around as if she didn't even notice the sheriff's presence.

Henry nodded. "He won't be going anywhere for a while."

None of them looked reassured.

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Though the local lawmen made no effort to conceal their animosity, the conducted themselves with professionalism. Veidt was moderately impressed with their restraint; he recalled the numerous incidents involving police brutality in New York, and those were just the ones that made the news. They splinted his damaged arm as a temporary measure until he could be taken to the local doctor. Evidently, she put Rorschach's and his compatriots injuries ahead of Veidt's.

Adrian examined his cell. Everything clean, unmarred by the ubiquitous graffiti one would expect. Even the porcelain sink/toilet in the corner gleamed pristine white. This cell was seldom used, he'd wager, save as a place for the local drunks to sleep it off.

The muted click of the door at the end of the corridor heralded the arrival of the deputy called Reg. He sauntered up to the single occupied cell. "'Kay, Veidt," Reg motioned the prisoner over, cuffs dangling from his other hand, "We're takin' ya to the Doc's."

Minutes later, guarded by two well armed men who each kept one hand on his holstered revolver, Veidt patiently allowed the old woman, Lila Danvers, to tend his minor wounds and X-ray his forearm which ended up requiring a cast.

Veidt offered the doctor a friendly smile as she wound the plaster-coated bandage around his arm. "Thank you, Dr. Danvers."

"I take the Hippocratic oath seriously," she replied curtly, her face an expressionless mask. Bile rose in her throat, all but choking her. This was the man who assaulted her friends and terrorized the sweet little girl whom she'd ushered into the world. For the briefest moment her eyes wandered to the drawer where she kept her scalpels. It would be so simple, and would anyone here really object to his convenient demise? She shoved the thought aside with abject shame. A doctor had to be better than that. Better than _him._

Once the monster was finally gone, Lila's composure melted away. She sat on the edge of the very examination bed her patient had occupied moments ago, hands trembling, and quietly wept.

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Lila had offered to let both families sleep at her place that night, which they agreed to. None of them relished the idea of spending the night at a crime scene. They all drove out to the little blue house to collect some clothes and toiletries, enabling them to not be present when Veidt was brought to see the doctor. They found Blake sprawled morosely on the porch beside the spot Nixon normally occupied and brought the German shepherd along when they returned to Lila's. Along the way they went to see Elsie and check on Nixon.

"Mike says he's stable," her aunt informed them in a weary voice, "He said I could spend the night here. I don't wanna leave Nixon all alone in a strange place."

Chloe said she understood and fetched her aunt's things from the car. "Call us if anything changes."

Elsie nodded.

The kids laughed when Blake playfully hopped out of the backseat and ran in circles as if chasing his own tail, much to their parents' relief. When Danny found the gash on Blake's side, probably from the knife Veidt wielded at the time, she insisted on taking care of it herself. She dabbed the minor wound with a wad of cotton soaked in disinfectant while Blake sat calmly, wagging his tail.

"Can he sleep with me tonight?" the girl asked.

Chloe pursed her lips, glanced at her husband who gave a slight nod. "Alright. Just for tonight."

Later, as the Dreibergs were settling into their room, Walter approached the couple. "Daniel."

Dan regarded his former partner coolly. "Yes?"

Walter swallowed. "I don't blame you for what happened."

The bespectacled man's expression gradually changed from wary to relieved. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Walter held out his hand. Dan gratefully shook it. From behind her husband, Laurie smiled and nodded her thanks. One less worry for them to brood over that night.

None of them talked about Veidt.

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Chloe woke from a fretful doze when she felt the bedsprings shift beneath her. "Tylenol not workin'?" she mumbled.

Walter sighed, "I'm alright."

"Maybe Lila can give you somethin' stronger."

"It's not the pain."

Chloe felt her heart sink. "Didn't think so."

In the darkness of the unfamiliar room, her husband's form was a faint black silhouette. Her questing hand touched his arm, traveled down until she felt his fingers interlace with hers. He whispered to her, although there was no one else to overhear, "I'm afraid for Danielle. What happened to her…" His grip on Chloe's hand tightened. "I couldn't protect her." She knew from the sound of his suppressed voice that he was crying. Chloe's own eyes stung in empathy.

Walter turned his head away, although he knew his wife couldn't see his face. He wiped the moisture from his eyes. "It's only going to get worse," he continued in a slightly louder voice. "Veidt will make sure the authorities find out about me, to discredit me if it goes to trial. They'll take me away from her, from you."

Chloe sobbed and pressed against him, desperate to feel the reassuring solidness of the man beside her. Despite the pain in his ribs, Walter hugged her close.

"W-we could," she sniffled, "We could go away somewhere…" But she knew before the words were uttered that it was impossible. They couldn't uproot their daughter from the home she'd known her entire life, abandon their friends and loved ones. And even if they did, where could they possibly hide?

Walter forced himself to speak. "If it happens, if they take me…" he swallowed, "I don't want you see me. Not with our daughter or by yourself. I don't want you to see me in prison—"

_"Shut up,"_ Chloe hissed, startling him. Her fingers gripped him hard enough to hurt. "Don't you ever say anything so stupid. It might not even come to that."

Walter shook his head, the gesture unseen in the dark. "It will happen."

"You don't know that!"

"Chloe," his blindly searching fingers touched her face, traced her lovingly familiar features, "Denial won't change things." He expected the words to make her cry, but instead her voice hardened.

"If you go to prison, I _will_ see you, and I _will_ bring Danny. You can't ask us to forget about you."

"Chlo—"

"This is not open to debate."

He smiled in spite of himself. "Stubborn."

"No. Just scared out of my mind," she replied without humor. "I don't wanna lose you."

Walter kissed her unseen lips. "I love you." It was all he could say.

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Adrian lay in his darkened cell and listened to the silence echo around him. One of the deputies had obligingly provided him with a phone to contact his lawyer, Charles Vanderberg, but it would take several days for the attorney to get to this remote little town.

"I'll get in touch with a colleague of mine, Albert Sheldon. We went to law school together. He has a practice in Lovettesville, which I believe isn't far from where you are. He should be able to see you tomorrow morning."

Adrian didn't worry; he had faith in the power of his attorney. He was troubled, however, by something which he never expected to feel since his, to put it bluntly, catastrophic failure to permanently silence his enemy. The more he analyzed himself, alone in his night-shrouded prison, the more certain he became, and the greater his dismay because of it. Adrian Veidt was…relieved. For what reason, he couldn't fathom, but there was no other word to describe his current state of mind. Veidt was caught trying to murder a man he long believed dead along with his family, and he felt _relieved_.

"I could very well go to prison," he murmured to himself. His lawyer was good, his resources all but limitless, but nothing guaranteed beyond all doubt that he would never be convicted for his crime. Prison held no fears for him; Veidt was confident in his ability to survive in inhospitable surroundings. What truly worried him was the chance that the very thing he'd sought to conceal by killing Rorschach would somehow be uncovered. It could happen. And what then? Never mind the personal ramifications—the collapse of his business empire, the loss of his social standing, becoming a social pariah who would undoubtedly find himself the victim of a justifiably enraged mob. What of the Accord? Could world peace survive without a common foe for the world's powers to focus their antagonisms towards?

Veidt shifted on the uncomfortable thin mattress. As always when doubt assailed him his thoughts drifted to what he'd done to create this lasting peace. His unforgivable sins. Veidt was not a particularly religious man, but he believed in the soul. He knew his soul was tainted, and if there was a hell, there was no doubt in his mind that he was destined for it. _I tried to create a heaven on earth, and in the process I sacrificed my right to dwell within it._ But it was right. What he did was right. He knew this. He believed it.

He had to believe it.


	16. The Media Storm

**A/N:** Okay, I'm just going to come right out and say that I don't know squat about the legal process beyond what I've seen in the movies, so that's basically how I'm going to write this, like scenes in a movie. My apologies if anyone's bothered by whatever inaccuracies are bound to crop up. Just keep telling yourselves, "It's only a fanfic."

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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It was a long night, and when he woke, it was to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. Veidt told them he was vegetarian, but it seemed they chose to forget this particular fact. Rather than give his jailers the satisfaction of hearing his complaints, Veidt chewed the dry, unbuttered toast and sipped his watery orange juice. No sooner did he finish his unsatisfactory meal when the deputy, a younger man named Kyle Hauper, announced that Veidt had a visitor. Adrian remained seated while the door was unlocked and slid aside to admit a swarthy man in a tailored brown suit. "Mr. Veidt," the man spoke in a quiet yet authoritative voice, "I'm Albert Sheldon, a colleague of Charles Vanderberg. I am here to act as your attorney until Mr. Vanderberg arrives."

Veidt nodded his understanding.

"Have you been treated well?"

"As can be expected."

Sheldon took a seat beside him on the cot, the only item of furniture in the bare cell. He placed his obligatory briefcase on his lap and rested his hands atop it as he would a table, fingers interlaced. "The main thing we need to focus on right now," he began without further preamble, "is to request a change of venue to NYC. Shouldn't be difficult. Small community, everybody knows everybody. No chance of an impartial jury here."

Adrian doubted he would find an impartial jury anywhere.

"Now that I'm here, the sheriff will want to interrogate you," Sheldon continued, "Do not answer any of his questions without my say so. If either he or any of his deputies try to get anything out of you without your attorney present, it'd be best if you not say anything at all."

"I understand." He really saw no point to this; he wasn't so easily intimidated that he would foolishly incriminate himself further with a few careless words. No sooner did he think this than he and Sheldon were escorted to the cramped interrogation room. Like everything else about the simple building, it appeared to be seldom used. Sheriff Henry Dobbins sat across from them at the off-white table. Even seated the man was noticeably taller than them. A tape recorder rested on the table by the sheriff's right hand. He pressed the red recording button once Veidt and the attorney took their seats, uttered all the relevant facts—names, dates, etc. But before he could ask any questions Sheldon interjected.

"My client has decided to exercise his Fifth Amendment rights and will not be answering any questions at this time."

The sheriff's almond-shaped eyes narrowed further. "Can he at least verify that he is indeed Adrian Veidt, founder and CEO of Veidt Enterprises?"

"Yes," Veidt responded before the attorney could speak.

Henry Dobbins leaned back in his chair, his posture seemingly relaxed, casual. "You weren't carrying any ID. Travelin' incognito. Means this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing. You knew before you even got in your car that you were gonna attack that family, weren't you?"

Veidt's expression remained impassive. Henry wasn't surprised. He didn't expect to get anything out of this interview; Veidt was no fool and he wasn't easily rattled. He certainly wasn't going to spill all to a small-town lawman who seldom dealt with anything more serious than joyriding teens and petty thefts.

"What put the idea in your head, I wonder," Henry murmured, "Did you catch a glimpse of Hiram at the dedication ceremony?"

The corner of Veidt's mouth quirked. "Hiram? Does he truly answer to that?"

"Why wouldn't he?" the sheriff retorted evenly, "It's his name. Born and raised right here in Jubilation. Everybody in town knows him and would swear by his integrity."

"They would have to, wouldn't they?" The knowing smile didn't falter while the unspoken words hung between them; _Otherwise, they would have to admit they've harbored a known criminal for the last ten years._

Henry found the man's expression unnerving. There was no smugness, no bravado, false or otherwise. That little smile which graced his perfect face did not reach his eyes. Staring into them was like looking into an abyss. Henry suppressed a shudder. He suddenly reached forward and hit the stop button on the tape recorder. The device clicked, the little spools of the cassette jerked to a halt.

"There's something I need to ask you. Something that'll stay off the record."

Veidt settled back in his uncomfortable chair, nodded once. At his side, the attorney frowned uneasily, but chose to remain silent for the time being. Whatever would be said at this point would be inadmissible in court.

The sheriff visibly steeled himself. "It wasn't Dr. Manhattan, was it? It was you."

The smile faded, but did not entirely disappear. Veidt appraised the man across the table and gave a single nod, the movement so slight it could easily be missed. But Henry saw.

Afterwards, alone in the interrogation room, the sheriff stared at the empty chair across from him and wished Walter had killed that bastard when he had the chance.

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Danny opened her eyes. It was the weekend. She knew that just by looking at the sunlight. She didn't care what anybody said; Saturday light was different from any other kind of daylight. She turned her head and her cheek bumped against Blake's cold, wet nose. The German shepherd blinked, panted happily. His swampy breath wafted over the girl.

"Augh!" Danny shoved the dog off the bed. Blake landed agilely on his paws and turned to regard her, tongue lolling and tail wagging. The fur on his side was parted in a narrow line where his shallow knife wound showed. Danny sobered at the sight. She rolled out of the unfamiliar bed and knelt beside the dog, scratching him behind his pointed ears. "You wanna go home, boy?"

Blake sneezed.

"Me too." She straightened, grabbed her clothes and got dressed, then she and the dog left the bedroom. She was not surprised to find her parents up before her. Dan and Laurie were up as well. Their mottled bruises and bandaged cuts were a sad reminder of what they'd been through. They were all seated around Lila's dining table drinking coffee and talking in low voices. Danny hovered uncertainly in the doorway until her father took notice. He smiled, held his hand out in a come-here gesture. Danny went to him and he put his comforting arm around her.

"Sleep alright?" he asked. It was obvious from the dark circles under his own eyes that he hadn't.

Danny shrugged. There weren't any nightmares, so she supposed that counted as a good sleep. "Can we go home now?"

The adults looked surprised by her innocent question. Chloe, seated opposite of Walter, reached out to take her daughter's hand. "Do you want to go home?" She'd assumed the girl wouldn't want to return to the house so soon after Veidt's attack. But Danny's expression, though somber for a nine-year-old's, showed no trace of lingering fear. She nodded yes. Chloe looked to her husband, who gave his own small nod of assent, then smiled reassuringly at the girl. "Okay then."

Everyone was so quiet. It made Danny uneasy, but seeing the house up ahead banished some of her worries, despite the yellow police tape coiled around the porch's entrance. Henry said it was okay for them to return; his deputies had already taken all the photos and fingerprints they needed. Danny grabbed a loose strand of yellow crime scene tape and ran across the yard trailing it behind her like a streamer, Blake running alongside and barking enthusiastically.

Laurie shook her head as she watched the girl's antics. "Can't believe how she's bounced back from it all."

Her husband appeared less reassured. "She's probably in shock, blocking the stress till she can get a handle on it."

Their son hopped out of the backseat and hurried to join the girl. Their enthusiastic laughter brought a surrealness to the morning. Daniel, Laurie, and Mona went to stand with the others by the porch steps. None of them felt quite ready to go inside just yet. They watched the kids with varying degrees of affection mixed with trepidation.

"It's only going to get crazier," Chloe finally stated for all of them, "The second Veidt's arrest gets out this place'll be swarming with reporters."

A chill autumn breeze made Walter shiver. He could just imagine his neighbors and friends being hounded mercilessly by the mass media. Droves of TV personalities and tabloid reporters, prying, digging. Would his false identity hold up? What about if or when this went to trial? The fears he'd voiced the night before continued to eat away at him. It was the uncertainty more than anything that was driving him crazy. If Walter could just _know_ one way or the other, he could learn to cope with the situation. But he didn't know. Would his past be discovered? Would he be taken from his family, imprisoned for the actions he committed as Rorschach? If so, would Veidt still be convicted, or would he be acquitted, perhaps even praised for tracking down a wanted criminal? What would happen to his family? To Dan and Laurie and _their_ family? Would the lives they'd created, the happiness they'd known, all come to nothing?

The mood was lightened when Michael dropped off Elsie and Nixon. Poor Nixon was forced to wear one of those absurd funnel-shaped collars to prevent him from messing with his stitches. He looked like a giant hairy desk lamp. Elsie insisted on taking the dog inside, as she thought the chilly outdoors would aggravate his injuries.

"He's fine," Elsie said, patting the dog's wrinkly back, "He's a damn lucky animal."

Danny crouched on the floor beside the motionless Nixon and peered under the rigid cowl of his collar. The dog's rheumy eyes regarded the curious girl with familiar apathy. Danny grinned, sat back on her heels to regard the two families who continued to murmur amongst themselves in worry. She wished there was a way for her to reassure them all that everything would be alright. She felt it her bones with a certainty that defied all logic and banished her remaining fears. Everything was going to be okay.

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Douglas Roth picked up the ringing phone, tucking the receiver against his shoulder while he struggled into his overcoat. "What?"

_"Mr. Godfrey's on the line,"_ his assistant announced in a bored voice.

Roth sighed. "Put him through."

Hector Godfrey skipped over the insincere pleasantries and got straight to the point. _"Tell me you just heard about this."_

"I just heard about it," Roth replied.

_"Thank Christ. Thought I was losing my edge for a minute there."_

"It's all over the wire," Roth rummaged through his pockets in search of his keys, "I'm on my way out now, hopefully before the stampede's in full swing."

The other man's disbelieving snort traveled down the phone line. _"Are you actually abandoning the comforts of your nice big office to throw your hat in with the rest of us hardworking journalists? Sure you can keep up?"_

Roth scowled. The two of them might have developed a grudging respect for each other due to their odd partnership, but they still didn't like each other. "I'm not about to pass the biggest story of my career to some wet-behind-the-ears kid right out of journalism school."

_"You mean _second_ biggest,"_ Godfrey amended, referring to their collaborative efforts to get Rorschach's journal and its volatile contents out to the public. After weeks of careful inquiries and numerous setbacks the two newsmen finally found a small yet reputable publisher willing to take the massive risk of printing the journal, yet discreet enough not to leak anything until said journal was ready for distribution. Both Godfrey and Roth were in agreement that secrecy was the key. Should Veidt get wind of this, he would shut down the entire enterprise before the journal ever saw the light of day. Even so, the situation remained uneasy. There was little guarantee the public would be willing to read the paranoid ravings of a violent masked vigilante, let alone give credence to what he'd written. At least, until this latest incident occurred. Adrian Veidt was arrested for assault and attempted murder of a family in a small rural town nobody ever heard of before. The story spread throughout the media's consciousness at the speed of rumor, and rumor had it the reason Veidt attacked them was because the man of that luckless family bore a striking resemblance to a certain masked adventurer long thought to be dead. If _that_ didn't lend some credibility to the journal's claims, nothing would. Why would Adrian Veidt try to permanently silence the infamous Walter Kovacs (whether it really was him or not) unless he believed the vigilante was a threat?

Roth grunted as a jingle from his coat pocket heralded success. He fished them out, then bit back a groan when he realized they were his office keys. Why the hell did he have so many keys, and why couldn't he keep them all in one place? His frown deepened when a sound suspiciously like a car horn blared distantly over the phone. "Where are you?"

_"On the road."_ There was no mistaking the smugness in Godfrey's voice at having a head start. Collaborators or not, they were still rivals when it came to the news. _"Lit out as soon as I heard the first inkling. What about you, Douglas? Still looking for your keys?"_

Roth's response was short, descriptive, and highly unoriginal.

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Dan shoved the last of their baggage into the trunk of the car. It was a somber occasion as he and his family prepared to leave yet again. He could not quite banish the guilt he felt, as if they were abandoning their friends.

"It's better this way," Walter tried to reassure him. Both families were gathered outside, clad in thick jackets to combat the autumn chill. Dead leaves fluttered across the lawn making dry papery sounds as they piled up against the side of the house and the picket fence. The sky above was clear and blindingly blue.

"Better?" Dan cannot hide his frustration, "Any day now this place'll be swarming with reporters prying into your lives. You won't be able to leave your own home!"

"How would your staying here help?" Chloe asked reasonably, "You shouldn't get yourselves dragged into this any more than you already are."

"You could come stay with us," Laurie offered, surprised by her own spontaneity.

Walter's family all shook their heads. "We're not running off," Elsie added, "'Sides, you're liable to get your own swarm of newsmen once you're back in the city."

Daniel groaned, ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. "God, what a mess."

Walter's gaze was drawn to Danielle and Wally who sat on the porch steps with Blake between them, scratching behind the dog's ears and talking to each other in voices that were surprisingly upbeat. It amazed him how well they were handling all this. It wasn't as if they were kept ignorant of all the risks, they just didn't dwell on things they had no control over. Whatever happened would happen. He wished it were as easy for him to shrug off his constant worries.

Laurie stepped forward, embraced Chloe who smiled. Dan and Walter shook hands. Elsie hugged everyone, including Mona. Dan called for his son. Wally reluctantly stood and hopped down the porch steps. "Bye, Danny."

"Bye." The girl waved, blinking in the bright sunlight. When the car drove off and vanished into the distance, the adults went back inside. Chloe paused beside her daughter on her way up the steps. "You sure you're okay to go back to school? Things could get pretty scary once the story of what happened here gets out."

Danny nodded emphatically. "You an' Dad ain't hiding. Why should I?"

Chloe smiled, ruffled her daughter's unruly hair. "Okay. But if it gets too tough for you, just let us know. Promise?"

"Okay," Danny sighed, sounding put out. She got up to follow her mother into the house.

All too soon the quiet countryside was disrupted by the rumble of a hundred vans bedecked in every form of antenna and satellite dish known to man, garish logos painted on their sides. The blinding glare of flashbulbs and arc lights. The thunderous roar of the multi-headed beast shouting its innumerable questions. The media storm struck the hapless town of Jubilation, doubling its modest population in a day. Large groups of journalists and television reporters clustered around the sheriff's office and its small jail where Veidt remained incarcerated. Others were gathered near the little blue house where the would-be victims lived. Chloe hated having them there, but as long as they remained outside the property line, there was little anyone could do about them. The curtains remained drawn and the perpetually ringing phone off the hook to preserve what little privacy remained. Droves of camera men trailed after Chloe when she went to work, after Danny when she got on her school bus in the mornings.

At recess, a dozen eager men and women clustered against the chain-link fence. Once they identified the auburn-haired girl they began shouting questions, each person trying to drown out the other until the words came out in a nonsensical stream. "…Adrian Veidt…" "…your daddy ever…" "…Rorschach?"

Danny stared in bewilderment. Beside her, Seth Dobbins tugged her sleeve. "C'mon, let's go over to the swings." The swings were located farthest from the fence. Danny nodded and followed her friend on a diagonal path towards the swing set. As they walked, the clump of still-shouting reporters trailed after them, raising their voices as the kids moved further away. Danny looked at them, then turned to Seth with a grin. "Watch this." She ran down the length of the fenced-in playground. The reporters trotted after her. She ran back the other way, they followed, still yelling their unintelligible questions. Halfway down Danny stopped, doubled back. The group stumbled and crashed into each other, each one trying to be in the lead. Back and forth, run-halt-back-stop-stumble. Seth and many of the other kids on the playground laughed at the sight. The reporters looked like a school of fish trailing after a shiny lure.

Walter had the hardest time with it. He rarely ventured outside for fear of seeing his face plastered across every newspaper, tabloid magazine, and TV screen, because whenever that happened someone inevitably remarked on how much he resembled the notorious Walter Kovacs, and hey, maybe he _was_ Rorschach after all. Maybe Veidt the Saint was only trying to bring the wanted vigilante to justice. Chloe was ambushed more than once by overzealous reporters faking injuries so they could ask her all sorts of invasive questions. The bastards. Walter swore to himself if any of them harassed his daughter he'd have them eating their own cameras.

"Feels like we're under siege," Chloe drily remarked one evening as she peeked through the blinds. A dozen telephoto lenses stared back at her. She sighed and resumed her seat on the couch beside her husband who flicked through the TV channels in a desultory fashion. So far all he could find were images of his own home from every conceivable angle. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table with a growl of frustration. On the television screen, an overly coiffed Asian woman twittered into her microphone, her tiny voice almost drowned out by the constant drone of her fellow reporters. Walter scowled as they cut to a chubby man standing before Jubilation's beleaguered sheriff's office. Seconds later the familiar stately figure of Adrian Veidt was escorted out by a nervous Kyle Hauper while several other cops strove to hold back the crush of eager reporters who thrust out their microphones and portable cassette recorders and shouted rapid-fire questions until all one could hear was a confused gabble. Veidt smiled and nodded pleasantly to the reporters, acting for all the world as if he were attending a public gala rather than being transferred to another jail. His left forearm was encased in a bulky cast, necessitating that his other wrist be cuffed to Deputy Hauper rather than having both hands behind his back. Kyle helped the prisoner into the backseat of the vehicle that would be transporting him and the car pulled out, surrounded by an escort of police on motorcycles. Veidt's attorney hadn't wasted any time in getting a change of venue. Walter could only hope the new judge would choose to deny bail. God knew what Veidt might do once he was no longer behind bars. Of course, with his resources, being in jail probably did little to hamper him.

Elsie, seated at one of the two easy chairs, shook her head at the chaotic mess. "Maybe now that he's outta town all those bozos outside'll go."

"Wouldn't count on it," Walter grumbled. He glanced uneasily at the stairs, wondering how his daughter was taking it. The instant Danny was off the school bus the swarm of reporters outside had rushed towards her like a school of hungry piranha. Walter had to pick her up and run to the house to narrowly avoid the stampede. Once they were safely inside, the girl dashed up the stairs and into her bedroom after only the barest exchange of words: "Hi. I'm gonna do my homework."

"Maybe we should keep her here," Walter thought aloud, "Until the reporters leave."

"We already gave her that option," Chloe said gently, "She wouldn't agree to it. She needs to spend time with her friends, not stay cooped up at home all day." She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "They shouldn't be here long."

"That's right," Elsie agreed, "Media's got the attention span of a two-year-old. You'll see. In a coupla days there'll be some big pileup on the interstate or some politician'll be caught doin' his secretary and those newshounds will forget all about us." The old woman spoke with such surety she almost believed it herself.

Walter was not at all reassured. "They're already asking questions about me."

"Nobody will say anything," Chloe assured him. Of this, she had no doubt. Still, the anxiety hung over all their heads.

Walter rose from the couch, edged around the coffee table and the slumbering form of Nixon in his bandages and his ridiculous collar.

"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.

Walter headed for the stairs. "Check on Danielle." He ascended to the second floor, leaving the two women to their silent fretting.

In her room, curled up on the daybed with her math book balanced across her knees, Danny blinked as her concentration was interrupted by a knock at the door. "C'm in."

Her father stepped in, seemed surprised to find her doing homework. "You alright?"

Danny shrugged, chewed the end of her pencil thoughtfully. "Teacher gave us extra math homework. I think he's gonna give us a pop quiz tomorrow." She scrawled a number on her answer sheet, frowned, erased it, and wrote a different one.

Walter seated himself on the daybed, Danny's sock-clad feet almost touching his leg. The girl took in her father's sober expression and set her homework aside. "You okay, Dad?"

Walter smiled ruefully. He indicated the window where the distant murmur of the encamped reporters filtered through. "Did they frighten you?"

Danny shrugged. "Freaked me out a little. Some of 'em were outside the fence at recess. They were yellin' all kindsa stuff."

The redhead frowned. "Like what?"

Another shrug, this time she averted her eyes. "Just stuff, y'know?"

"About me." It wasn't a question.

The girl nodded, reluctant. "An' Wally an' Dan 'n Laurie." The Dreibergs, back home in New York, no doubt fending off their own media storm. "They didn't know their real names," Danny hastened to add, "They called 'em the Hollises. An' they still call you Hiram."

"That's a relief," Walter mumbled without much conviction. He placed a hand on his daughter's upraised knee. "If it gets too hard for you, let me or your mother know."

Danny shook her head. "Momma already said that. I'm okay. Really." And she was. For her the worst already happened. Now the bad guy was in jail and she and her family were still alive. Even though she was told of the danger to her father's secret, how he could very well be arrested and imprisoned, it didn't seem real to her. The irrational optimism she'd awoken to the morning after the attack stayed with her. She just wished her parents felt it as well. Their constant worry troubled her more than the overzealous reporters and their constant prying questions.

Walter stared at his daughter and wondered at her lack of anxiety. Was she still in shock? Or was she deluding herself into thinking there was no danger? Still an innocent in spite of all that happened. Walter's throat tightened at the thought of being taken from her, of losing all that he loved and cared for. Impulsively, he pulled her into a tight embrace. Danny returned the hug with equal intensity, sensing her father's need to connect with her, to reinforce their familial bond. She kissed his rough cheek. "It'll be okay, Dad. You'll see."

"You really believe that," he declared in wonder, pulling back to gaze at her calm blue eyes.

Danny nodded. "Sure. Don't you?"

"I want to." But no matter how much he wished for it, the certainty wouldn't come.

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In the fragrant confines of the local diner, Hector Godfrey slouched in the last available booth and doodled in his notepad. It was frustrating as hell. The locals were more than willing to answer questions about the incident, where they were when they heard about it, whether or not they saw the infamous Adrian Veidt as he was taken to the town's small jail. But whenever the subject turned to Veidt's apparent target, the man named Hiram Charleson who bore such an uncanny resemblance to the (allegedly) late Walter Kovacs, their enthusiasm dried up like the Sahara. Their answers were terse to the point of monosyllabic. It was like pulling teeth to get any information on the guy!

The brash older waitress with the badly dyed hair and the perpetual odor of stale cigarettes hanging about her approached with a heavily laden tray balanced expertly on one hand. "Here y'are," she rasped in her smoker's voice, setting a large plate before the reporter, "Steak 'n' eggs, rare and sunnyside up."

"Thanks." Godfrey tucked his notepad into his jacket's inner pocket and reached for the fork lying atop a paper napkin. He eyed the waitress speculatively; the woman had gossip-monger written all over her. "I don't suppose you could tell me anything about Hiram Charleson?" he asked without much hope.

The woman quirked a jaded eyebrow. "Sure. He's my nephew."

Godfrey blinked. "Your nephew."

"Yep. My brother Jed's boy. Born 'n' bred right here in Jubilation."

"You don't say!" Godfrey couldn't be sure, but he felt he might be getting somewhere. In a town where Caucasians were in the minority, it shouldn't be too difficult to track down some proof of this claim. He kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner; he'd been laboring under the assumption that Hiram Charleson—if that was indeed his real name—was a transplant from the city, like his wife. Godfrey took some consolation from the fact that his rivals seemed to have made the same assumption. He casually brought out a twenty from his pocket and placed it on the table. The waitress's eyes immediately homed in on the money.

"I would very much like to hear whatever you might wish to convey about your family members." Godfrey flashed his most disarming smile, one which took many years of practice as his features were naturally dour.

The woman's mouth twisted in a doubtful grimace. "Tryin' ta dig up some dirt on him like all these other buzzards?"

"On the contrary, Ms…?"

"Deb Blascoe. I own this place, if you can believe it."

"Ms. Blascoe, I intend to prove he is exactly who he claims to be, rather than what rumor would have everyone else believe."

"Hunh. Well," she maneuvered her not inconsiderable girth into the opposite seat, "Don't know what all I can tell ya. Up till now things've been pretty dull around here. Hiram's a real homebody, y'know? Just putters around in his vegetable garden and takes care of anything around the house that might need fixing."

"He's never left Jubilation?"

Deb shook her head. "Not really. Went to that memorial thing in New York with Chloe, his wife."

Godfrey nodded encouragingly. "But nothing long term?"

"Nope."

"You said he was born here?"

"Yep."

Her one-word answers were beginning to sound too much like all the other locals' responses. "Er, is there some sort of record of this?"

"You mean his birth certificate? Sure, it's in the Hall of Records." She pointed to a modest brick building a couple of blocks away. "But I wouldn't expect ta get much help there. Alma Jessup's a tyrant with those documents."

"Thank you." Godfrey slid the twenty across the table. The waitress eyed it suspiciously. "Think of it as a tip."

"Hmph." She plucked up the money and stuffed it daintily into her breast pocket. "Need anymore coffee?"

"No, thanks."

As the woman sauntered off, Godfrey tore into his meal with renewed gusto. It wasn't much, but it was definitely something to go on. Maybe he couldn't prove the man was Rorschach, but he just might be able to convince the public that Veidt's unbelievable actions were driven by his guilt, his desperation to keep secret his orchestrating the horrific act of terrorism that was wrongfully attributed to Dr. Manhattan. Godfrey smiled at the thought.

Deb shoved the twenty into her tip jar, wondering if she'd done the right thing. But if that newsguy found evidence to support everybody's claim that Walter _wasn't _Rorschach, then maybe the authorities wouldn't go digging too deeply into his past. These were scary times. The whole town was conspiring to maintain a lie. All it would take was one little slip, either by accident or—God forbid—design, and every man and woman in Jubilation could find themselves implicated in harboring a fugitive. Nobody wanted that, and nobody wanted to see that family torn apart. Deb sure as hell didn't.

Behind the diner's counter near her usual spot by the coffee machine, Deb picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Hall of Records.


	17. Intuition

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Doug Roth pressed his crimson-stained handkerchief against his battered nose and tilted his head back. He hated the sensation of the blood trickling thickly down the back of his throat. Disgusting! But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the humiliation of getting punched in the nose in front of dozens of gawking witnesses. He brought it on himself; he was willing to admit that much. Roth shouldn't have provoked the guy.

He was having a drink at the town's only bar, an oddly classy-looking place called Arlo's, which was owned and operated by Arlo Henderson, the former mayor of Jubilation. The place was doing rollicking good business since the media's invasion. Every evening frustrated reporters, journalists, producers, and technicians attempted to drown their decided lack of success in alcohol. Often members of various competing channels and publications would trade halfhearted insults, but nothing ever really got out of hand. At least, not until a young upstart working for some supermarket tabloid made a few cutting remarks about Roth's advancing age hindering his former successes and Roth, fueled my indignation and more than a few gin and tonics, made a not-so-subtle hint that said upstart probably spent his nights molesting livestock scattered throughout the countryside. Things degenerated predictably after that. Next thing Roth knew, he was lying on the bar's hardwood floor with a bloody nose, surrounded by a circle of faces that were both amused and mildly concerned.

There was a bright side to all of this, however. He now had the opportunity to meet Chloe Charleson up close and personal. She was older than he expected, but still quite handsome. Her long graying curls were tied back in a ponytail to give an unobstructed view of the tracery of lines on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She wore no makeup, but did smell faintly of lavender soap. Her hazel eyes were flecked with green as she checked her patient. "It's not broken," she concluded in a dispassionate, professional voice.

"Can you do anyt'ing for da bleeding?" Roth asked somewhat nasally.

The nurse nodded. "I'll get some coagulant and some Tylenol for the pain."

"Dank you."

Having a long Q-tip shoved up his nostrils was pretty disconcerting. Nevertheless, Doug Roth rallied himself. "All this media attention must be frustrating," he ventured, "especially after all that's happened."

The corner of Chloe's mouth twitched. "To put it mildly."

Roth continued conversationally, "You probably thought you'd put all the senseless violence behind you after leaving New York for here. You and your husband."

"My husband never lived in New York. Take these," she handed him a little plastic cup with two pills, yellow and red gelcaps. Roth downed them obediently, then swallowed the paper cup of water that followed.

"My mistake," he went on, keeping himself seated on the exam table, much to the nurse's annoyance, "But I could have sworn I heard one or two of your fellow residents mention you brought him with you when you returned from the city after the attack."

Chloe fought back a wince. She was never that great at lying, having to concentrate to keep her features neutral. Better to say as little as possible, or nothing at all. "I'm sure you misheard."

Roth bowed his head in a gracious nod. "It is quite striking, though. His resemblance to—"

"Yes, I know," Chloe's response was almost a snap, "You all keep saying that. Yes, he does look a lot like Walter Kovacs. But he's _not._"

"The resemblance was certainly enough to fool Adrian Veidt, assuming that's why he came here. Even so, why do you think he would attack a fellow mask?"

"I couldn't care less why he did it," Chloe growled, eyes startlingly green with unconcealed anger, "And I don't appreciate these constant questions being hurled at me and my family. We've been through a terrible ordeal and all we want is to be left alone so that we can learn to deal with it."

Roth brought out the motto of his profession, "But the people have a right to know."

The nurse moved towards him so suddenly he leaned away and nearly slipped off the edge of the exam table. "Sure, your motives are entirely altruistic," Chloe hissed, glad to finally be able to vent, "Couldn't possibly be because you get off on digging up dirt. I remember when you ambushed Dr. Manhattan on national TV, that smug little grin on your face when he finally lost it. And you expect me to cooperate with someone like you?" She stepped back and visibly schooled her features to something a bit less hostile. "We're finished here. Please leave."

Roth stood, sniffed experimentally. "Mrs. Charleson," he said in his gentlest I'm-on-your-side voice, "I genuinely believe that your husband isn't Rorschach," a half-truth, but one he could easily live with, "Intruding on your family's privacy is not my goal. I simply wish to understand what happened, what could have motivated the world's greatest philanthropist to such a brutal act."

Chloe remained silent, unconvinced. The journalist reached into his inner coat pocket, produced a small gold case, flipped it open to extract an embossed business card. "Here's my card. No pressure. I only want you to tell me whatever you're comfortable discussing." He held the off-white rectangle out to her. "All I'm interested in is knowing the truth about Veidt."

With great reluctance, Chloe accepted the business card. Roth nodded once, then strode casually to the exit. Chloe sighed, looked at the card: _Douglas Roth, Executive Editor, Nova Express._ Chloe used to be a casual reader of the _Nova Express_, finding it liberal viewpoints easier to agree with than some of the extreme right-wing publications, such as the _New Frontiersman_. Thinking of that Republican periodical made her wonder if Hector Godfrey was in town as well. Walter used to be an avid _Frontiersman_ reader, back in his Rorschach days. Considering Godfrey's loud and frequent support of masks in general and Rorschach in particular, it wasn't surprising. Chloe's mouth twitched in wry amusement. She could just imagine it: her giving an interview to Roth while Walter spoke to Godfrey. Why not in the same room just to make it more interesting? Chloe snorted, then tucked the card into her pocket and promptly forgot about it.

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The instant he met Alma Jessup, Godfrey was swept back to his days as a kid in parochial school. Most of his teachers were nuns, stern-faced women who looked as if they were born in their mid-sixties who viewed their young charges will ill-concealed contempt. Penguins from hell, he and his classmates used to call them (though never remotely within earshot, and those nuns had keen hearing that bordered on supernatural). Godfrey fidgeted under the ancient woman's disapproving glare. Though the top of her severely coiffed head barely reached his shoulder, the strong-willed newsman felt like an awkward boy beneath the onslaught of her ageless personality. "Er, Mrs. Jessup?"

"Yes." The syllable shot from her mouth like a lead slug, a tone that conveyed that nothing he had to say could possibly be worth her valuable time which his presence was currently wasting.

Godfrey steeled himself. "I'm Hector Godfrey from the _New Frontiersman_. It's a newspaper," he felt it necessary to add.

If anything, Alma's gimlet stare grew even more piercing. "One of my assistants had a subscription," she said flatly, "Took a glance at it once or twice. Found it a bit too lax on some issues, in my opinion."

That was something Godfrey didn't hear very often; his paper was notoriously conservative. Then again, the woman standing before him probably still believed in the merits of public flogging. "I'll be sure to look into that," he said, hoping to placate her. His efforts were wasted.

"You had best have a good explanation for interrupting my daily cataloging." The old woman crossed her arms, tapped one sensibly shod foot impatiently.

"I was hoping to see Hiram Charleson's birth certificate."

Alma's piercing eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she was not surprised by his request. Moments ago as she was finishing her lunch—tuna salad on whole wheat, carrot sticks, skim milk, and an apple—she got a call from Deb Blascoe informing her of the reporter's imminent arrival. "Think it'll hold up?" the waitress had asked, to which Alma replied in a huff, "Of course! I made the necessary alterations myself."

Nevertheless, she didn't see any reason to make it easy for this nosy man. "Do you now?"

"Yes, please," Godfrey responded, reverting to his schoolboy politeness, "It is a public record, after all, is it not?"

Alma's expression told him her opinion of "public records." "Hmph. If you simply _must_ see it, then. Follow me." The old woman pivoted on one heel and marched smartly down the long echoing hall, her narrow spine ramrod straight and radiating displeasure as tangible as a fire's heat. Godfrey followed meekly behind, grateful none of his peers could see him behaving this way, especially Roth. Then again, it would be amusing to see that bleeding heart confront this elderly force of nature. She'd probably have him groveling at her feet within minutes of their meeting. Godfrey smirked at the thought.

The old record-keeper led her unwelcome guest through the maze of eerily well organized halls of the Hall of Records' mausoleum-like interior, finally stopping before one of the many columns of floor-to-ceiling drawers and pulling one out seemingly at random. She rifled through the many labeled folders until she came to the correct one and extracted the yellowed document with care. "Here it is, Hiram Charleson's birth certificate."

Godfrey took the proffered sheet of paper and handled it with care, although it was not at all brittle, having been carefully stored and rarely touched throughout its existence. The standard form was filled out by hand rather than typed. Godfrey squinted at the florid script and his mind worked to decipher it. _Name: Hiram Wendall Charleson. Gender: M. Date of Birth: 3/18/41. Hair: Red. Eyes: Bl._ It all seemed perfectly legitimate. How many red-haired, blue eyed, Caucasian men could there be in a mostly black town this small? Godfrey was about to return the document when something caught his eye. Something…off. He squinted closely at the page, tilted it so the overhead light hit it at an angle.

"Are you quite finished?" Alma snapped, "These documents are far too delicate to be manhandled."

Godfrey handed the paper back to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Jessup. I'll see myself out." He negotiated the twisting path back to the main entryway, hands stuffed in his overcoat pockets and brow furrowed in thought. Alma watched the newsman's departure with a dark frown of suspicion and just the tiniest hint of worry.

Outside in the frigid air, Godfrey buttoned his coat and wandered down the town's main thoroughfare, ignoring the bustling throngs of reporters interviewing various passersby in hopes of catching some nugget of interest in time for the evening update. The birth certificate was genuine, he was certain, but there was something about it that had grabbed his attention and wouldn't let go. Some tiny, insignificant detail that would no doubt keep him up tonight. When he'd tilted the page a certain way, he'd seen a discrepancy on the form. Where it listed the eye color, he noticed the _l_ in _Bl._ had a deeper indent in the paper's surface, as if someone had scrawled the letter over a different one in pretty much the same style of handwriting. Instead of blue eyes, Hiram Charleson was originally listed as having brown ones. It was probably nothing more than a correction to an earlier clerical error…but what if it wasn't? Godfrey was familiar enough with false identities to know that the ones that held up best under close scrutiny were those taken from people who had passed away at a young age, infants and small children. That way, you had the legitimate documentation to back up your claim.

Godfrey was often prone to formulating conspiracy theories. He was a paranoid individual, which he readily admitted to in rare moments of introspection. But paranoid didn't necessarily mean wrong. What helped him to bolster his latest notion was a small discrepancy in answers given by various residents of the town; some said that Chloe brought her new husband with her back from New York City, while others claimed that Hiram Charleson was born and raised in Jubilation and had never lived anywhere else. It was amazing how often things like that happened, details that people who knew each other for years could not agree on. Most of the media people just shrugged it off if they noticed it at all, but now that Godfrey saw that little change to the birth certificate, he began to consider that there might be something more to it. Good God, what if the whole town was in on it? Hundreds of people conspiring to conceal a fugitive's identity? That seemed too over the top even for Godfrey's paranoid leanings. Then again, that waitress, Deb Blascoe, had steered him towards the Hall of Records, and Alma Jessup was grudgingly willing to allow him to look at the certificate until he started to look too closely, then she'd all but snatched it away from him.

_This is all just useless conjecture,_ he chided himself, _I must find something concrete._ But what? An interview with someone in the know would be good. A meeting with "Mr. Charleson" himself, almost ideal. Unfortunately, Charleson avoided the media like the plague. Godfrey could knock on the door, but he'd only have it slammed in his face before he got the chance to ask anything. He needed to get the man's attention. He needed to do something drastic.

Godfrey's car was parked behind the overcrowded bed and breakfast where he was unjustifiably lucky enough to get a room before the town was completely overrun. He unlocked the trunk, pulled out a nondescript gray metal box, and carried it up to his room. The box was without question the most expensive item he'd ever purchased; a top-of-the-line security lock box, airtight, waterproof, fireproof, impervious to X-rays, and impossible to force open unless one had access to hydraulic-powered equipment. Safely ensconced within the privacy of his room, Godfrey removed the appropriate key from his jangling keychain, slipped the key into the lock, then typed in the code on the box's digital keypad. There was a muted _click_ and the lid opened without resistance. Nestled within the lock box's padded foam interior was an aged leather-bound journal. Rorschach's journal. Godfrey didn't dare leave it back in New York, not even in a safe-deposit box. It was far too precious to trust in the hands of others. He lifted the slim volume from the box, slipped it into his overcoat's inner pocket. He was nervous. He knew he was about to do something risky and completely irrational, but sometimes a journalist had to act irrationally in order to succeed in finding the better story. Godfrey smoothed his coat over his body, comforted by the weight of the book in his pocket, then left his room, careful to lock the door behind him. He went to his car, started the engine, and headed for the outskirts of town where the Charleson residence awaited.

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Walter didn't want to go outside. He knew it was foolish, understood that isolating himself in the house wasn't physically or mentally healthy, but he couldn't stand to have all those eyes, all those cameras staring at him. But Danielle was restless that afternoon. She'd finished the little homework she had and the house just couldn't hold her. She wanted to play outside and she wanted her dad with her. Walter couldn't say no to such a simple request, especially since his daughter so obviously desired his attention, so he threw on his coat and pushed aside his anxieties. Not as if they didn't already know what he looked like.

The moment they stepped outside the jumbled mass of flickering lights and milling bodies erupted into shouts and entreaties, all muddled together and therefore that much easier to ignore. One brash young cameraman dared to step over the invisible line which marked the boundaries of the family's property. Instantly, Blake leapt down from the porch and sped towards the intruder, barking furiously. The cameraman hastily jumped back with a yelp. Blake skidded to a halt, sensing the unseen barrier which separated His from Theirs. He paced before the huddled reporters and barked imperiously, just to let them know he was onto them, then trotted back to the house, head high and tail wagging. Walter couldn't help but smile at the rambunctious German shepherd and patted the animal's head. Blake's tail wagged all the harder for his unspoken praise.

Danny grabbed her dad's arm and practically dragged him around the back of the house. There stood her apple tree, its fruit harvested and its leaves diminishing, the tire swing dangling forlornly from the strongest branch. Danny ran to the simple plaything and ducked through the tire, her legs dangling from one side, her hands gripping the rope just above the knot securing it to the tire. Walter knew his role. He stood behind his daughter, took hold of the tire's sides, and pulled back until the rope would give no farther. He then released his hold and Danny whooped with glee as she zoomed across the leaf-littered lawn in a swooping arc. When she swung back her father was quick to place his hands against her back and give her another push, sending her caroming even faster than before. Danny grinned in elation, auburn curls trailing behind her, freckled cheeks ruddy from the cold autumn air. A short distance away Blake observed the two humans' activities with friendly bafflement.

Walter loved these moments with his child, the happiness he experienced from her simple joy. Sometimes the emotions he felt were so powerful they brought tears to his eyes. He knew his feelings were more intense than most fathers', but that was only because his own dreadful youth made him appreciate his daughter's innocence all the more. When Danielle was a baby, he tried to convince himself she was more like her mother than him, but over time he began to see aspects of the child's personality that he couldn't help but associate with himself. Her occasional bouts of recklessness, for one thing. When she was four she learned to stand on an overturned bucket to reach the lowest branches of her apple tree. Walter was mowing the lawn, oblivious of his daughter's actions, until he heard a thud over the hum of the mower's engine and then the heart-wrenching squalling of a child's distress. He'd dashed over to the apple tree to find Danielle lying on the ground, hands pressed to her face, bawling her eyes out. Walter scooped the girl up into his arms and carried her into the house, murmuring words of comfort all the while. In the bathroom, he coaxed her to move her hands away and was all but devastated by what he saw. Danny had fallen out of the tree, hitting her forehead on a branch on the way down which resulted in a small yet bloody cut above her eyebrow. Walter very nearly wept to see his little girl in pain. He cleaned her wound and applied a band-aid, his actions and words filled with tenderness. Walter considered calling Chloe to check her for anything more serious, but decided against it as Danny's sobs gradually subsided into unhappy sniffles. She was not as badly hurt as he'd feared. He soon left her in the living room with her crayons and coloring book, content with the knowledge that she would never go near that tree again. Five minutes later he was astonished to find Danny perched in the crook of one of the apple tree's lower branches waving cheerily at him. He hadn't known whether to be amused or horrified. Chloe, however, upon hearing this, was not so ambivalent; she'd laughed and declared, "She's your daughter," as if that statement explained it all. And perhaps it did.

"Higher!" Danny shouted, tire swing twisting on its rope so she wound up nearly facing her dad. Walter grinned, "Any higher and you'll wind up in orbit." The girl laughed at the thought.

While father and daughter had their quality time the cloud cover steadily increased until the sky became a roiling mass of slate-gray. The first drops pattered on the brown leaves. Walter sighed, suddenly reluctant to go back indoors when he was enjoying himself. "Starting to rain. We should go in."

Danny uttered a groan, yet dug her heels into the dirt to skid to a halt. The rainfall increased noticeably as she extracted herself from the tire swing. She bumped up against her father's side as they half-jogged around to the front of the house and Walter slung an arm around her. Blake trotted after them, casting a warning look at the reporters should any be foolish enough to try to get any closer. None did. Most were already headed for the shelter of their parked vehicles. Walter, Danny, and Blake made it onto the porch as the rain hit full force. An autumn rain. Fat, heavy drops, dismally cold. Blake curled up under a thick blanket left on the porch for him while father and daughter hurried into the house's cozy warmth.

It was just the two of them in the house that afternoon; Chloe was still at work and Elsie had gone off with Bess Everton to have her hair done (Walter suspected all those cameras outside triggered the older woman's vanity). Danny kicked her shoes off and went to hang up her coat in the closet. A familiar cardboard box on the shelf above her caught the girl's eye. Walter stepped up behind her to put away his own coat and noticed her attention on the box. He took it down from the shelf, lifted the lid. His old brown fedora lay inside.

"How come you kept it?" asked Danny.

Walter shrugged. "Doesn't mean as much to me as the mask did."

Danny tentatively reached into the box, glancing at her father for any sign of disapproval. Seeing none, she lifted the hat out of the box, turned it over in her hands in curiosity. Walter took the hat from her, then gently placed it on the girl's head. It sat low on her head, compressing her unruly curls. Danny peered at him from under the brim and grinned. The freckles across her nose and cheeks seemed especially prominent at that moment, as were her blue eyes. Walter smiled, "It suits you."

"It's too big!"

He nudged the brim, tilting the hat farther back on her head. "You'll grow into it."

Danny's eyes widened. "Does that mean you're lettin' me have it?"

Walter's brow furrowed in surprise. "Guess I am."

The child beamed up at her dad. She grabbed the sides of the hat, pulled it down low on her head making her ears stick out comically. Walter laughed, realizing at that moment that his many worries had lifted for the time being. He wondered how long it would last.

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Godfrey cursed a blue streak as his car coasted to a halt. He'd forgotten to check the damn charge! With the wipers no longer moving, the windshield blurred under the rain's onslaught. Godfrey's hand went to his inner pocket and its precious contents. He didn't have an umbrella, nor was his coat waterproof. If he stepped outside the journal would be ruined by the weather. Yet he couldn't bring himself to leave it, even locked inside the glove compartment. How long would this shower last?

Other cars passed him by without a pause, headlights blazing through the downpour. Godfrey was about to convince himself to take his chances outside when a sedan pulled up beside his own useless car. It sat patiently, its invitation clear. The journalist heaved a sigh of relief. He braced himself, then barged out of the car, shoulders hunched and hands clutching his loaded pocket to give some meager protection as he raced for the other vehicle. The passenger door opened without resistance and he flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. "God bless you!"

"Don't mention it."

Godfrey gaped at the familiar moustachioed smirk. "Aw, hell. It would have to be you." He scowled, then leaned in with a puzzled squint. "What happened to your nose?"

"Nothing," Roth muttered, no longer smirking. He pulled out into traffic, keeping his speed to a near crawl. He could barely see a thing in this rain. The headlights did little more than reflect off the thousands of droplets in his path. "Where were you headed to?"

Godfrey checked his pocket and was relieved to see the journal remained undamaged. "I was on my way to the Charleson residence."

The other journalist glanced at him in surprise. "Why? They're not letting anyone near the house. I even tried talking to the wife at her place of work, but didn't get anywhere."

"A woman immune to your charms?" Godfrey sneered, "You must be losing your touch."

"Fuck you." Roth winced. Why did he resort to such simplistic comebacks when the two of them were face to face when he could fill entire columns with witty retorts during their many written battles?

Godfrey chuckled. "Must have hit a nerve. My sincere apologies." He didn't sound particularly sincere.

"You haven't answered me. What makes you think you'll get anything out of that family?"

The older man visibly sobered. He pursed his lips, pinched the bridge of his nose. Roth waited out the other's internal debate, his curiosity growing by the minute. Godfrey sighed, "I'd keep this to myself, but this could impact our collaboration." He then told Roth of his visit to the Hall of Records and subsequent discovery, as well as how he planned to confront the taciturn "Mr. Charleson."

"Are you out of your mind?" Roth snapped, "You've spent the last ten years keeping that journal a secret and now you're going to wave it under the man's nose? What if he _isn't _Rorschach? You could be wrecking our chances at publishing it!"

"I know," Godfrey replied calmly, which only aggravated the other man further.

"You're going senile, that's the problem," Roth gritted his teeth, glaring through the windshield at the rain-blurred road, "Going with the first half-assed thought that pops into your head."

Godfrey snorted, "As if _you've _never gone with a gut feeling."

"Of course I have! Some of my biggest breaks came from gut feelings. But this…" He waved a hand in frustration, unaccustomed to being at a loss for words.

Godfrey's mouth quirked. "You're just upset that you didn't come up with the idea yourself."

"Shut up." Roth flipped the turn signal, though no other vehicles were in sight.

Godfrey frowned as the car turned off the main road. "Where are we?"

Roth pointed ahead. A blue structure loomed through the dismal rain. "The Charleson's house."

"So, you're going along with this?"

"On the far and distant chance that you might actually be right, I'm sure as hell not letting you take all the credit." Roth switched off the engine and yanked the key from the ignition in a decisive manner. Godfrey smirked. The two newsmen jumped out of the car and made a dash for the house, Godfrey hunched over once again to shield his precious burden. They'd mounted the steps onto the porch when something large and unfriendly emerged from beneath a thick fleece blanket and growled menacingly.

"Shit!" Roth held up his hands as if the German shepherd were holding a gun on him. "Uh, good dog. Nice dog."

Blake uttered a throaty snarl, thus disproving the man's statement.

Godfrey was situated just behind his fellow journalist and was still receiving a good amount of rain. His concern over the journal's condition increased. "For Christ's sake, Douglas, go knock on the door."

Roth leaned back as the irate dog stepped closer. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

_"Rowf!"_

Much to the two men's relief, the front door opened to reveal a surprised nine-year-old gazing at them through the screen door. "Hi."

"Hello," Roth managed to sound charming even as he continued to inch away from the snarling beast, "Would your father happen to be home?"

"And does that bite?" Godfrey added, pointing at the dog. The gesture merited another explosive bark.

"Shush!" the child admonished. The German shepherd quieted, but continued his baleful glare at the intruders. Danny regarded them with frank blue eyes. "Dad's not gonna want t' talk to you."

"We would really appreciate it if you got him," Roth flashed his most disarming smile. The girl seemed unimpressed. Nevertheless, she turned her head and bellowed, "Dad!"

The slight-figured redhead appeared just behind his daughter. Seen together, the girl's resemblance to her father was all too evident. The man's eyes narrowed in displeasure. "Not answering any questions."

"Please, this will just take a moment," Roth said, unaware that he still had his hands up, "I'm Douglas Roth, from the _Nova Express_."

"I know." He obviously couldn't care less.

Godfrey shuffled aside to get a better view of the door and the redhead's eyes shifted to him. "And I'm Hector Godfrey."

A flicker of something other than hostile apathy in that icy stare. "Why are you here with _him?_" He pointed to Roth, who finally lowered his hands, embarrassed not to have done so sooner.

"If you would kindly let us in, I will be more than happy to explain."

Danny watched her father's troubled face as he debated with himself in silence. Finally, with great reluctance, he nodded. The two newsmen entered the house's warm, dry interior with sighs of relief, shaking the moisture from their overcoats. The girl politely offered to take their coats, which they duly handed over (Godfrey was quick to extract the leather bound volume from his pocket and conceal it behind his back). They then followed their hosts into the living room. From the doorway which apparently led to the kitchen there came the aroma of heated chicken noodle soup. The redhead confronted his unwanted guests, arms crossed and eyes glaring. "Well?"

Godfrey exchanged silent looks with his doubtful partner, then slowly brought the journal into view. The man's reaction was instant. His blue eyes widened in recognition, his mouth opened in a silent exhalation of surprise. He reached out and took the slim volume without hesitation, staring at its worn cover, lightly spattered with moisture, touching the faded letters embossed on the leather with intimate familiarity. Walter met Godfrey's tense gaze. "I was never sure it reached you."

Godfrey smiled while Roth gaped in disbelief.


	18. Bitter Heart

**A/N: **The journal excerpt is from the Watchmen graphic novel. The quoted poem near the end of this chapter is taken from _Ozymandias_ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The full poem at the very end is _The Heart_ by Stephen Crane.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Soft. That was how Rorschach would have described Walter. The time he'd spent with his daughter in the backyard put him in a good mood, which was why instead of slamming the door in those reporters' faces like he should have, he let them talk him into admitting them into his home. Then Godfrey showed him the journal. Ten years ago, in a desperate act motivated by his impending showdown with Ozymandias, Rorschach mailed his journal and all its incriminating entries to the _New Frontiersman_. But he never knew if the package made it to its destination before the energy bomb went off; never saw or heard anything to hint at its continued existence. So when he saw its familiar scuffed leather cover Walter didn't think, he just reacted.

"I was never sure it reached you." He saw Godfrey smile, Roth stare agape, and felt his own heart plummet. _Stupid, stupid!_

"No," Roth stammered, "It can't—you _died!_" He pointed at the former mask, as if Rorschach had suddenly manifested from the ether to spite the news reporter.

Walter drifted to the sofa in a half-daze and sank into its welcoming cushions, cradling the journal in his hands. He freed it from the rubber band that held it shut, let the covers part to reveal the familiar scrawled writing. Danny, curious, wandered to her father's side and peered over his shoulder.

_…Entering diner, bought coffee, then sat watching my maildrop, immediately across street. Passersby made various deposits: candy wrappers, newspapers, a pair of Keds strangled by own laces, tongues lolling out horribly. This city is an animal, fierce and complicated. To understand it I read its droppings, its scents, the movement of its parasites… I sat watching the trashcan, and New York opened its heart to me._

That spidery writing, her father's hand, but not his words. Those were words composed by a darker soul than the one her daddy possessed.

Seeing his child's gaze riveted on the crinkled pages, Walter quickly flipped the volume shut. He looked at the two reporters, lifelong rivals now apparently working together. "Why did you bring this?"

"We're getting it published," Godfrey explained, "Roth and I together. Veidt's arrest has made this the ideal time for it. The public's opinion of him is at an all time low."

"Also," Roth added, having regained some of his composure, "the book's contents would explain to everyone _why_ he attacked you and your family. To protect his secret." Two mutually substantiating facts: the journal explained the attack; the attack corroborated the book. Christ, this couldn't have been better if they'd planned it! His mind was a-whirl with possibilities; book signings, guest spots on prestigious daytime and late night TV shows, maybe even a movie of the week! And the best part was they'd get to see that bastard Veidt get his just desserts while the empire he built upon a lie would crumble before his eyes. Roth stared at the silent redhead seated before him; his golden goose. "This is perfect. An exclusive interview with Walter Kovacs, the infamous Rorschach."

Walter practically jumped from his seat. "No. You don't need me. You have the book." He thrust the journal into the startled newsman's hands.

Roth blinked. "Are you serious? You can't expect us to keep quiet about this. This is history in the making!"

"He'll go to prison," Godfrey murmured, realizing the implications which Roth, in his journalistic euphoria, overlooked. Or perhaps he simply did not care. Roth's eyes held the same steely gleam they possessed when he ambushed Doctor Manhattan and drove the superbeing into self-imposed exile on Mars. Like David bringing down the mighty Goliath, Roth would expose Adrian Veidt's sins to the world, and Rorschach would be the stone by which he accomplished this feat. It would bring the journalist's success to a new high and cement his place in the annals of media history. He would be more than famous; he'd be immortalized!

Not even Godfrey, for all his endorsement of masked vigilantes, was immune to such temptation. It was the dream of everyone in their profession to come upon something extraordinary and to find it _first_. The two men fairly glowed with avarice. It did not occur to them at that time that had Walter still been Rorschach, his impulse would have been to silence the two reporters for all eternity in the name of self-preservation. Even so, Walter's hands began to clench at his sides. Danny saw this and reached for his nearer hand. Walter glanced down at her, forced his fingers to relax so his daughter could slip her smaller hand in his. Danny smiled up at her father as if to reassure him, then looked at the two men who'd caused him such distress. "Are you gonna get my dad sent to jail?"

Roth and Godfrey grimaced at the child's calmly voiced question, the spell cast by their latest discovery broken. They found themselves unable to return her querulous stare, nor could they meet Walter's stony gaze. Becoming successful media personalities required a certain degree of ruthlessness that both men managed to employ without completely obliterating their sense of integrity. It was a precarious balancing act, and more than once in their long careers each man chose to compromise his ethics to get ahead. Still, Roth and Godfrey were men of conscience; Roth sought to bring down corrupt systems and powerful individuals by exposing the various injustices perpetrated upon everyday men and women; Godfrey believed that a strong America lay in a strong government and supported the ruling powers with fierce patriotism while at the same time emphasizing the Constitution which bestowed the God-given rights of every man, woman, and child of which said government presided over. One was liberal, the other conservative. One a fiery Democrat, the other a staunch Republican. Both believed fiercely in justice. Both understood right from wrong.

"Excuse us for just a moment." Godfrey took his comrade's arm and led him to a corner of the living room. Their murmuring voices reached Walter's and Danny's ears, too low to distinguish more than a few words. Outside, the heavy rain continued to spatter; inside, the smell of the soup Walter heated on the stove permeated the air. Warming things up was about all he was good at when it came to preparing food. Elsie once joked that he could even burn water. As a result, he rarely utilized the stove, but with Elsie at the beautician's and Chloe still at work, there was no one else to make sure Danielle got something warm in her to combat the dropping temperature. As he observed the newsmen's whispered conference, Walter wondered if he or his daughter would have any appetite left.

"He's an escaped felon," Roth whispered, wondering who he was trying to convince, "He's a vigilante and a murderer."

"He has a family," Godfrey retorted, equally conflicted, "He hasn't been active for years. And he tried to stop Veidt." Tried and failed.

"We can't keep quiet about this," Roth hissed, "We'd be accessories after the fact. Besides, once the trial starts the defense is bound to give out his identity anyway."

"Yes." Both men were startled by the sudden interjection of Walter's voice. He stared at them with somber eyes, clutching his daughter's hand as she leaned against his side. "The authorities will find out about me. It's only a matter of time." His Adam's apple bobbed in a convulsive swallow. "Keeping quiet will make no difference, except to give me a little more time with my family," his voice quavered with his next words, so subtly it might not have happened at all, "Don't make me have to leave them that much sooner."

Roth winced. Not too long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to turn the man in. He was Rorschach, after all. A violent psychopath. Roth wasn't expecting someone so ordinary. And that damn kid's sincere little eyes… He ran his fingers through his rain-damp hair. "Oh, hell."

Godfrey was not quite so conflicted. On hearing his collaborator's mild expletive, some of the tension in his posture abated in relief that he did not have to fight him on this.

Danny could practically feel the anxiety in her father seep away just a little. He and the two reporters seated themselves, Walter absently lifting his daughter onto his knee, and the three men conversed in quiet tones for a few minutes more, the journalists asking for clarification on certain facts within the journal, its author answering as best he could. Then they all stood, shook hands. The two men bade farewell to Danny, who smiled in return, and then, without fanfare, they left.

Danny hugged her dad. Walter put his arms around the calm girl, his own feelings a mixture of sadness and relief. At least he could take comfort from the fact that the truth about the bombings would finally be told.

Outside, the weather turned into a miserable combination of rain and snow. Winter, somewhat late in coming, now made its uncomfortable presence known. The two reporters slouched in their now inadequate coats and ran for the relative comfort of Roth's car. Roth quickly started the engine, flipped on the heater. He grimaced at the tepid air blasting from the dashboard vents, impatient for the heat to kick in.

Godfrey checked the journal, satisfied its little jaunt left it none the worse for wear. He tucked it back into his pocket and turned to regard the man beside him who was occupied with negotiating the driveway. "We made the right decision."

Roth snorted, squinting through the driving slush in hopes of not steering his car off the road. "I'm not sure there was a right decision in that circumstance."

They lapsed into subdued silence, pondering their encounter. "Not what I expected," Roth confessed.

Godfrey stared through the window at the all but invisible scenery blurring past. "I don't know what I expected." He touched the journal's leather cover as one would a talisman.

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She arrived amidst the storm, both media and meteorological, lost and uncertain. She asked around. Once they understood her not to be one of the myriad reporters infesting the town, the locals proved eager to help. Chloe? She'd be gettin' off work by now. They gave her directions to the town's modest hospital. She pulled up in the driveway just as Chloe stepped out the door to get to her compact car and head for home.

"Chloe?"

The strangely familiar voice gave her pause. A figure emerged from a sedan whose interior was crammed with a lifetime's accumulated belongings. The rain and snow had finally abated; only a few stray drops fell to spoil the sudden calm. One landed on Chloe's forehead and dripped down the side of her nose, unnoticed, for she knew who this person was. "_Rachel?_ My god, what're you doing here?" She hurried forward to embrace the younger woman, smiling at this unexpected, but not unwelcome, surprise.

Rachel's words came out in a rush and Chloe quickly understood that not all of the moisture gleaming on her cheeks resulted from the weather. "I couldn't find any other job. All the hospitals in New York are full up and more of 'em are closing all the time and I couldn't afford to pay my rent and…and I know I shoulda called, but I kept getting a busy signal," Rachel choked, pulled herself together, "I'm sorry, but I didn't know where else to go. You mentioned the doctor here might be retiring and—"

"It's okay, Rache," Chloe interrupted as the guilt settled in; in all the hectic days since Veidt's attack, she hadn't even thought to check on how her friend was doing. "We haven't had the phone on the hook since these damned reporters invaded. I'm so sorry. I know I should've called."

"It's alright," Rachel sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, "I heard about what happened." _Who hasn't?_ Chloe thought sardonically. "I didn't wanna intrude, but I just didn't know what else to do."

"Don't worry about it. I'm happy to see you." And she meant it; having a friend barge into Chloe's life was infinitely more welcome than the sorts of people who'd lately been showing up. "C'mon, you can follow me back to the house. We'll be more than happy to put you up for the night."

"You sure? I'd be okay in a hotel or something."

Chloe snorted. "Yeah, good luck finding a hotel room that isn't already claimed by half a dozen reporters and cameramen." She shivered. "Better get going before we catch our deaths." God, that was the kind of trite phrase her aunt would use.

The two women climbed into their vehicles and Rachel followed the welcome glow of Chloe's taillights. They made a single detour to pick up Elsie from Bess Everton's home-based beauty parlor, then continued on to the house. The rest of the family was understandably caught off guard by Rachel's unexpected and abrupt arrival, but readily accommodated her. Danny took to the young doctor right away. The two of them laughed together as they watched Nixon's tragically ludicrous attempts at eating while wearing his funnel-collar. The old dog finally maneuvered his head so the collar's rim encircled the bowl like a conical dome, concealing it and Nixon's head from view. This pose gave him the appearance of a bizarre vacuum cleaner. His audience heard the muffled crunches through the opaque plastic barrier.

As she helped him set the dinner table, Chloe frowned at her husband's distracted expression. "What's wrong?"

Walter hesitated, then leaned in to murmur, "Tell you about it later."

"Okay." Only now she thought she wouldn't want to hear it.

Rachel patted the feeding dog with a beaming smile. For the first time since she was laid off from work, she no longer felt adrift. She was here among friends, about to start anew, and everything was going to be alright.

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Nite Owl dragged the last body from the smoldering ruins of the drug lab. Damn fools, working without protective masks, surrounded by mind-altering chemicals. No wonder they all went batty the second they were aware of the two superheroes who'd infiltrated the rundown tenement where the lab was based. Now the dead outnumbered the living. Many of them weren't even old enough to shave, and they'd been armed with automatic weapons, their eyes crazed and bloodshot with addiction. Nite Owl was depressed. A light touch on his gloved hand drew his attention away from the motionless adolescent lying at his feet. The Silk Spectre, his wife and partner, regarded him through her mask with eyes as somber as his own. Her winter costume was noticeably bulkier than her typical skintight attire, lined with a thin synthetic insulating material to combat the dreadful cold. Nite Owl grasped her gloved hand in his own, grateful for her emotional support and understanding. They turned away from the ruin, the dead lined up in neat rows, the living bound with plastic ties and bandaged where necessary, all awaiting the arrival of those in more official costumes.

Nite Owl pressed the control on his wrist to summon Archie when a bulbous object which turned out to be a microphone was thrust under his nose.

"Nite Owl!" a tall Hispanic man shouted, though only the length of his arm separated him from the startled mask, "Is there any credence to the rumor that you and Silk Spectre were present when Adrian Veidt allegedly attacked the Charlesons?"

Damn, this guy was quick; he couldn't even hear the sirens yet. Nite Owl was far too astonished by this sudden confrontation to feel any anger just yet. "Uh, no comment." He tried to push by only to find a different microphone in front of him.

"Is it true that Hiram Charleson is in fact Walter Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach?" a perky little blonde asked.

Where the hell did she come from? "No comment."

Humming engines, running footsteps. More reporters? "Silk Spectre!" "Nite Owl!" "Hey, Ms. Jupiter!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Spectre growled and elbowed a path through the growing crowd. The two masks managed to disentangle themselves as they heard the distant sound of approaching sirens and quickly boarded the waiting Owlship. Most of the eager newsmen and women ran after the retreating vessel, waving their mics like frantic beacons, their shouted questions drowned out by the roaring jets. Archie rocketed into the night sky.

"What the hell!" Laurie ripped off her mask, her face flushed with exertion and mounting rage. "What, they were all just driving around listening to their police scanners?"

"Guess so." Nite Owl piloted his ship with deceptive aplomb, his own anger pushed to the back of his mind where it no doubt conspired to afflict him with indigestion later. It was only a matter of time before something like that happened. They'd already been approached by reporters as their Hollis alter-egos. Even though they weren't listed, the ever persistent news people managed to track them down. It was nothing compared to what Walter and his family were enduring back in Jubilation, of course, but it was still damned unpleasant. What if by some freak accident some overeager up-and-coming media personality stumbled onto the hidden lair? Sure, it was underground. Sure, the entrances were meticulously camouflaged. But it could still happen. Worse, what if one of those hotheads got him or herself hurt or, God forbid, killed while rushing into a dangerous situation just to try and get an exclusive quote from the infamous crimefighting duo? He shuddered at the thought.

Laurie paced up and down the length of the Owlship's interior, still fuming. "Nosy little shits. God, it was just like back when I lived with Mom. All those stupid interviews she made me do. I _hate_ reporters!"

"They're just doing their job, honey."

She rounded on her husband. "Why do you always have to defend everybody? Can't you let one angry remark slide just once?"

Dan pursed his lips and chose to remain silent. He really didn't want to get into a fight with her just now. He gently turned the steering column; Archie swooped majestically above the city's perpetual glow. A building hove into view; blocky, utilitarian, soulless. Sing-Sing Penitentiary, where Veidt was currently being held, isolated from the general population—more for the convicts' protection rather than the former superhero's. The Owlship circled the featureless building, low and near enough to see each individual barred window. No doubt the guards would soon spot the intruding vessel and subsequently raise the alarm, but Archie would be long gone before anything dire should occur. Nite Owl knew this was foolish, but continued anyway. Silk Spectre, now seated beside him in the copilot's chair, refrained from any criticism.

"You think he can see us?" Dan wondered.

His partner scowled. "I don't care if he can or not." She slipped her mask back on, adjusted it so the mouth and eye holes were positioned comfortably.

Nite Owl sighed, navigated the Owlship away from the prison before any guards could start their hue and cry. He glanced at the switched-off police scanner without enthusiasm. "What's say we call it a night."

"Fine by me."

They headed for home.

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Adrian watched the receding flares of the Owlship's jets until they vanished into the surrounding city lights. He turned away from the barred window, lay down on the narrow cot. The hearing would be held soon. Vanderberg, his lawyer, would naturally request bail. If the judge was even halfway competent, he or she would deny the request. Adrian certainly would in their position. He lay on the thin, hard mattress with his hands behind his head, body motionless and mind churning. The media tried to get in contact with him, but they were refused entry to the prison. One of the few advantages to his incarceration. But even isolated, Veidt was well aware of his tarnished image. Veidt Industries' stock values were dropping drastically. Many of his products were being boycotted altogether. In numerous towns and cities, groups of irate and concerned parents burned thousands of Ozymandias action figures and other toys in a massive bonfire. Trivialities, all. What chilled Adrian's soul was not his personal hardships but the increasing disfavor shown by the nations of the world in regards to the Accord. Senator Dole was only the first of many politicos who voiced the opinion that their energies should be focused elsewhere. They no longer believed in a common enemy. Soon there would be nothing to prevent them from returning to their self-destructive ways.

How could he have failed in so simple a task? Allowed himself to be captured, imprisoned? Because his resolve was weak. He'd let his misgivings get the better of him. He'd even felt relieved when he was captured! His shame over this brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

"Hey, big shot." The sneering voice broke the silence of the darkened isolation wing. From the corner of his eye Adrian glimpsed the silhouette of his guard, Roberto Silva. Ever since the former mask's transfer to this place, the corrections officer would hover outside his cell to taunt him, eyes shining in perverse glee. It did not seem to matter that Veidt never showed any reaction to the man's jeers. Perhaps having someone so much higher on the social ladder locked up under his watchful eye was enough to satisfy the man's overblown ego. "Gettin' comfy in your new accommodations yet? Sure, it ain't a penthouse, but its pretty cozy, right?" He leaned against the bars, idly swinging his baton in his other hand. "Tell ya what, I'll see if we can get a few houseplants in here, maybe a nice wall hanging. Make ya feel right at home."

Adrian let out a sigh, so faint it could not be discerned. Such a tiresome little man. Was it any wonder so few criminals were successfully rehabilitated with people like Silva lording it over them?

"Ozymandias," the guard snickered, "King of kings. How does it go? _'__Nothing beside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare/The lone and level sands stretch far away.'_ Pretty well sums it up, doncha think? Or it will soon enough." Silva backed away. "Well, better get on with the rounds. Pleasure as always." He sauntered off, running his baton along the bars like a stick across a picket fence. _Clang-clang-clang._

Veidt was irritated by Silva's knowledge of the poem of his namesake. That he should compare Adrian to that monument to supreme arrogance… No, he would not rise to it. Such pettiness was beneath him. Ozymandias, king of kings. Yes, he had accomplished much in his relatively young life. He had created an empire greater than all that existed before in history, and yet the nations of the world remained unaware that they _were_ part of an empire. His was a silent, benevolent reign, gently influencing events and decisions towards the betterment of all. The world was a paradise, stable, peaceful, wanting for nothing. And yet they still struggled against it, though they remained unaware. Veidt had worked hard to ensure he would be remembered as a man of great works, an unparalleled philanthropist, keeping his true power a secret. Now, it seemed all he'd worked for, the legacy of a world at peace, was slowly eroding. Why was this? Why did humanity resist stability? Bitterness rose in him. All those lives sacrificed for only ten years free from war?

He sat up, rose from his cot to stand before the window once again. Outside the city sparkled, the bright beam of the beacon on the artificial island at All Souls Lake jutting up like a spire. A flooded crater in the ground. Three million atomized corpses. His legacy.

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_In the desert_

_I saw a creature, naked, bestial,_

_Who, squatting upon the ground,_

_Held his heart in his hands,_

_And ate of it_

_I said, "Is it good, friend?"_

"_It is bitter—bitter," he answered;_

"_But I like it_

_Because it is bitter,_

_And because it is my heart."_


	19. Forgiveness

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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The snows fell, making the Christmas decorations hanging from every streetlight and telephone pole no longer seem out of place. Despite the cold, Wally wanted to go to the park, so Mona threw on a few extra layers and tromped outside with the eager boy. When they reached their destination she dusted off a nearby park bench, sat, and watched her young ward join in the general fun. Snowball fights, sledding, all the typical winter games played by children since time immemorial. As always, Mona kept an eye out for suspicious adults, only now instead of potential kidnappers and pedophiles she also watched out for those damned tabloid journalists that recently started to hound her employers. She, Dan, and Laurie all managed to keep Wally relatively sheltered from the consequences of Veidt's arrest. Even so, the boy could sense his parents' and nanny's tension and he could not help but be affected. Two days ago Mona was called to Wally's private school when the boy got into a brawl on the playground. Evidently, one of his classmates made some unfavorable remarks about his parents and their alleged involvement in Veidt's incarceration. Mona, and later Daniel, managed to assuage the principal's concerns and prevent Wally's suspension from school.

A man in a tatty coat caught Mona's eye. She watched him suspiciously as he circled the sandbox, which was little more than a dirty snow-covered mound snubbed by all in favor of the unblemished white blanketing the rest of the playground. The man's gaze seemed to fasten on a group of kids building a snow-fort that included Wally. Mona began to rise from her bench as the man approached the kids, only to snort in self-effacing amusement as a little girl separated from the mob of kids and trotted over to the man. The man smiled, took the girl's hand, and led her off towards the parking lot.

_Paranoid,_ Mona chided herself. But who on earth could blame her?

From the corner of his eye, Wally observed his nanny as she resumed her seat on the cold bench. The boy was not without his own dark troubles, despite his seemingly carefree behavior. At night, when he knew his parents were out on patrol, he lay awake fearing that they might not return. Ever since he witnessed their fight with Adrian Veidt, how battered they were, how close to losing to that fearfully powerful man, Wally became aware of his parents' mortality. How easily they could be hurt or killed, how fragile they were without their body armor and gadgets. The glamor of having superheroes for parents quickly faded, replaced by deep-seated anxiety.

On the street which bordered the fenced playground, a large van trundled by, its side painted with the Veidt logo in its signature purple. Wally experienced a flare of rage on seeing this. He hefted a fist-sized snowball and flung it towards the offending vehicle. The snowball struck the chain-link fence and exploded into crystalline powder, some of it sprinkling against the side of the van. An unsatisfactory outcome. Wally scowled at the passing logo, hating the name it symbolized, hating the man who brought him and his loved ones such anguish.

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Christmas. The time of joy and peace, of giving and receiving, and reaffirming love. Rorschach cared nothing for holidays. Pointless acts of sentimentality. But for Walter, they marked some of the happiest moments of his life; at least, since he came to Jubilation. But this year the celebration was tainted by the knowledge that it could be the last one he would spend with his family.

As always, Vernon Birdsong invited them to attend services at he town's single church. This year, the semi-private family broke with tradition and said yes. Walter felt awkward seated on the pew amongst his well-dressed neighbors. The last time he was in church was for his wedding a decade ago. He wasn't quite sure how to act.

_Bargaining with God,_ said the sardonic inner voice he came to think of as the ghost of Rorschach. Walter ignored it. He pulled out a hymn book from the pocket in the back of the pew ahead of him and thumbed through the pages. _Jesus loves me, this I know. For the bible tells me so._ Sounded like something composed for _Sesame Street_.

_Go ahead. Sing a hymn, pray to the cross, confess your sins. As if God ever gave a shit before._ "Shut up."

"'Scuse me?"

Walter colored, glancing sidelong at his puzzled wife. "Nothing," he mumbled.

The corners of Chloe's mouth stretched in a slow, amused smile and her eyes twinkled with the knowledge of his discomfort. Walter felt his own lips curve in response, pleased as always by her smile, even if it was at his expense. Chloe gently took the hymn book from him and slid it back into the pocket. "You won't need that. Vernon always has everybody sing carols for Christmas mass."

"Oh." Walter suddenly imagined the crowded church breaking into a rendition of _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ and bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. He knew this near-hysteria was a result of the stress he'd undergone the last few weeks. Still, it wouldn't do to lose his composure.

Grinning wickedly, Chloe leaned towards him and sang in a voice low enough that only he could hear: _"Bumpety-bump-bump, bumpety-bump-bump. Look at Frosty go."_

Walter doubled over, hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders trembling. Chloe snickered.

"Will you knock it off," Elsie hissed from Chloe's other side, "We're in the house of the Lord. Show some dignity, for Christ's sake." The couple, properly shame-faced thanks to her reprimand, instantly dissolved into stifled giggles on hearing the last phrase. Elsie rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile of her own, while one or two heads turned to regard the sniggering pair with mild annoyance.

"Sorry," Chloe said, forcing herself to calm down. Beside her, Walter straightened, his expression blank. Only the ruddiness of his cheeks betrayed his earlier mirth. Eyes ahead, he felt around for his wife's hand and clasped it in his own. Chloe smiled, squeezed his hand in return.

Vernon manifested like a spirit, dressed in a dark blue suit which flattered his dark skin and gray-white hair. Upon his appearance the people grew still. The abrupt cessation of their shifting bodies and subdued murmurs brought an eerie silence to the crowded church. All eyes were riveted on the handsome pastor as he took his place at the altar. Vernon smiled benevolently on his congregation. "Welcome one and all," his sonorous voice filled the church without the aid of a sound system, "Before the sermon, I would like you all to listen to the children's choir, taught by my dear wife Myra, as they offer their rendition of _Silent Night_."

This was the main reason for Walter's presence; his daughter was in the choir. There she stood on the stage with the other children, her unruly hair miraculously tamed and held in place with a gold hairclip, clad in a dark green vest with white ruffles on the sleeves. Danielle hated wearing dresses and skirts, but was willing to endure the discomfort to be part of the choir. She grinned and waved at her family, though Myra earlier admonished the kids not to behave so. Walter, Chloe, and Elsie enthusiastically waved back, the latter digging out her camera from her purse and clicking a few pictures before other proud relatives did likewise. At the piano, Judi Birdsong, home from college for the holiday, played the opening notes. The gathered children took a collective breath as Myra raised her arms, and the song began. _"Silent night. Holy __night. All is calm. All is bright…"_

Walter felt the telltale sting in his eyes and tightness in his throat that warned of imminent tears. He was embarrassed by this; never comfortable with emotional outbursts in public. Thankfully, everyone else's gazes were riveted onto the stage, and more than a few of them were dabbing their eyes. Walter felt relieved that he wasn't the only one getting misty-eyed about his kid's performance. Chloe pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and quietly blew her nose.

Danny's clear eyes focused on her dad, on the pride and happiness she saw in his expression. Her answering smile was filled with joy. Her sweet voice rang out, mingled with the rest of the youthful choir. _"Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly…peace."_

Walter was hardly aware of his hands clapping in applause. Stray tears, one from each eye, trailed down his craggy cheeks. A sobering thought occurred; in eight months his daughter would be ten years old. Would he be there to celebrate her birthday?

At the carol's end, the children dispersed to join their relatives in the pews. Walter and Chloe inched apart to let their daughter sit between them. As she negotiated her way down the pew, Danny received congratulatory pats from those she passed and a kiss from her proud auntie. The girl wedged herself between her parents, modestly pulling her skirt down over her knees. Chloe hugged her. "You sang beautifully, baby. We're all so proud of you."

Danny grinned, bashful of her praise, and shrugged. "It was fun."

Walter put his arm around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head. Danny's smile broadened and she leaned against her father.

Vernon resumed his place at the podium. A smile graced his handsome countenance. "Tomorrow we celebrate the birth of our Lord, whom God placed upon the earth to remind us of His love and wisdom. But let us also remember that Jesus taught us to forgive. Those who have transgressed against us. Those who have wronged us through malice or selfishness. Those who seek even now to do us harm. We must forgive them all, for they too are the children of God."

"Amen," the voices of the congregation spoke out as one. Walter wondered how they did that. Was there some cue he was missing?

"Forgive the thief, for he is your brother. Forgive the prostitute, for she is your sister," Vernon's voice rose with religious fervor, and even Walter felt himself drawn in, "Forgive every sinner, for they can all mend their ways. Yea, even the murderer might be redeemed if we but show them God's compassion."

Walter blinked. Was he talking about him? Or was he talking about Veidt?

"Amen!" the people called out, louder than before.

"Forgiveness is indeed divine! And love is righteous! My brothers and sisters, look to your enemies with love and forgiveness in your hearts and you will be that much further on the path to God's kingdom. Turn to your enemy, face them head on and say 'You are my brother, you are my sister, and so I love you. And I forgive you.'"

"Amen!" Walter was shocked to discover that his own voice had joined the others in their cry.

"'But,' you say now, 'I have no enemy to forgive,'" the pastor's voice dipped to an almost rumbling timber, "I say to you, sadly, we all have enemies, though we may not know them. And if you want to face your greatest enemy, the one who can commit the direst harm, you need only look in the mirror. For each and every one of us, our greatest enemy is ourselves. So look in that mirror, brothers and sisters. Look your enemy straight in the eye and say 'I forgive you.' Say it loudly and with all your heart. 'I forgive you!' For you are all worthy of forgiveness as creatures of God." His finger pointed out into the sea of faces like a lance. For an instant Walter thought it was pointed straight at him. The people stared at the passionate man at the altar, too riveted to even offer another amen. Vernon slowly lowered his arm. "And now," he said in a calmer tone, "let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads over their clasped hands, even Walter. From the corner of his eye he saw his wife and daughter do the same, their expressions somber, without a hint of amusement or irony. _I don't believe,_ Walter thought, but he realized then that it didn't matter. Belief was steeped within the hallowed structure, generation after generation, permeating the very molecules of the walls and the pew Walter sat upon. He felt it seep into him and the knot of anxiety he carried inside him eased. For this brief moment in time, he was at peace.

"O Lord," Vernon began, "We beseech You to bestow your mercy and compassion upon us as we celebrate the birth of Your only begotten son, Jesus Christ. Forgive us for the lie we must all perpetuate so that we may protect our brother."

Walter gaped.

"If You should see fit to forgive him for his past sins, dark and heavy though they may be, then You will have our eternal gratitude. If he should find himself condemned in Man's court, then we will accept it as Your will, though we humbly ask that You show him mercy, for he is a good man with a good, if tarnished, soul. Amen."

"Amen," the congregation echoed, while Walter remained silent, unable to use his voice for the pain in his tightened throat. He looked over his daughter's bowed head to his wife, who smiled tenderly, eyes shining.

Vernon raised his head to regard them all. "Have a safe and blessed holiday. God bless."

_God bless,_ Walter breathed, no longer ashamed by the emotions that showed so clearly in his expression. He rose from his seat and took his daughter's outstretched hand as they made their way down the narrow aisle to the exit. Outside, the biting cold numbed his exposed cheeks, turning them ruddy. His eyes were drawn upward to the church's spire and the lit star perched on its tip. Earlier, he'd thought it garish. But now, with the fresh snowflakes shimmering down like glitter, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he ever saw.

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"Merry Christmas!" Silva thrust a candy cane with a gold ribbon tied around it through the bars. Veidt eyed the candy and the smirking guard with obvious suspicion, then returned his attention to the book he was reading. Silva shrugged. "Hey, if ya don't want it, that's fine by me. Just thought you might wanna get into the spirit of things." He hooked the candy cane on one of the crossbars and left it dangling.

Veidt ignored him. He turned the page. _Flick._ The book was a biography on Alexander the Great which he had delivered from the prison library, as he was unable to leave the dubious safety of isolation. He'd read this edition before, but was not adverse to reacquainting himself with it.

"So," the guard carried on the one-way conversation, "what're you hoping t'get for Christmas? Me, I'm hopin' my old lady got me one of those new DVD players, but with my luck she probably just got me a nose-hair trimmer or somethin'." Leaning against the cell door, Silva examined his fingernails with a critical eye before biting off the corner of one. He spat the fragment out. "Doesn't really matter what I get, long as I got the quality time with the family, know what I mean?"

_Flick._

"Oh, that's right!" Silva's eyes widened in feigned recollection, "You don't _have_ any family! In fact, you don't seem t' have any friends either. I mean, if ya did, you'd have gotten a lousy card at least!" The correction's officer's eyebrows sloped in sympathy. "Tough break, pal. Really."

_Flick._ Veidt's eyes roamed over the printed page, letters blurring together into incomprehensibility.

"I mean, that Charleson guy you tried to whack, his life savings are like a spit in the ocean compared to what you make in a month. Hell, a week! But I saw some footage on the news yesterday and that guy's got I don't know how many friends in that little town he's in. Not to mention his family, and lemme tell ya, that wife of his is quite a looker." Silva eyed the silent prisoner. "You don't even have a girlfriend, do ya?"

_Rip!_ Adrian blinked in dismay at the torn page in his hand.

"Uh oh!" Silva snickered, "Boys in the library ain't gonna like that. You wait here." (As if Veidt had a choice.) "I'll go get some tape." He sauntered off, whistling _Deck the Halls._

Veidt closed the book and carefully set it aside. He sat on his cot with his hands folded on his lap, face expressionless as stone.

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It was a while before they were able to get to the car. Chloe was waylaid by Rachel and the two of them started chatting while Walter and Danny fidgeted impatiently. Elsie was too busy snapping pictures of everybody to care about the delay.

The day after her unexpected arrival, Rachel was taken to meet Lila who, after a casual interview, offered her a room at the hospital until she could find a place of her own. Rachel had been working side by side with the elder doctor ever since, learning the ropes. Though nothing was ever said, everyone soon understood that Lila had finally chosen her successor. Young and relatively inexperienced as she was, Rachel proved a capable doctor; intelligent, knowledgeable, compassionate, and eager to learn. Chloe was relieved to see her friend getting on so well. Rachel was even spending the holiday with Lila's family, so strongly had she endeared herself.

Craig Danvers plowed through the accumulating snow towards the waiting redhead and nine-year-old. In his current surroundings, with his broad figure and full beard, he looked more Santa-like than ever. Craig grinned and gave Walter a friendly pat on the back. After ten years of this, Walter was familiar enough with the man's strength to instinctively brace himself before the blow.

"Looks like you survived the sermon in one piece," Craig chuckled.

Walter smiled at the affable giant. "Wasn't so bad."

"Didya hear me sing?" Danny asked.

"Absolutely!" Craig lied, for it was impossible to distinguish individual voices when the whole choir sang, "Darned impressive."

Danny beamed. A few stray hairs managed to escape from the hairclip's confinement. Walter absently tried to brush them back into some semblance of order; a losing battle.

Chloe and Rachel hugged, wishing each other a merry Christmas, then Chloe made her way to her waiting family. "'Kay, let's go."

"Finally," Walter muttered under his breath. He said goodbye to his friend and followed his wife to the waiting car, holding his daughter's gloved hand. As everyone was getting into the vehicle, Walter glanced back and saw Vernon Birdsong standing on the church steps watching him. The pastor gave a slight nod and an even slighter smile. Walter responded in kind, then got into the car and shut the door.

The drive home was quick and uneventful. The reporters' encampment had vanished with the arrival of the snow, much to everyone's relief. They pulled into the driveway without a care, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't be photographed and videotaped on their way to the house. Blake trotted out to greet them while Nixon, whose stitches and absurd collar were removed days ago, peered out from his insulated doghouse. The German shepherd romped playfully through the snow while Danny laughingly chased after him. The adults watched their antics with indulgent smiles. Blake paused, dug through a particular mound of snow, and extracted his battered yellow Frisbee. Danny reached for it and the dog darted away, tail wagging. The girl lunged after the evasive plastic disc, laughing as Blake dodged out of her reach.

A faint engine hum drew the adults' attention to the end of the driveway where a familiar car pulled in. The vehicle coasted to a halt beside the blue compact and its occupants piled out. "Hey!" Dan waved, face ruddy from the cold, "Thought for a while we weren't gonna get here in time." In one of the rare moments when they were able to get through on the phone, the two families had discussed the merits of getting together for the holiday. They were all understandably worried that the Dreibergs' presence might bring even more unwanted attention to Walter and his family. But then they finally said "screw it" and decided to go ahead anyway. Though none of them said so, they knew this might be their last chance.

Danny broke away from her impromptu game of keep-away with Blake and ran to greet Wally who gave her the once over and declared, "You're wearin' a dress!"

Danny rolled her eyes. "Yeah. I had t' wear it so I could sing in the choir at th' church."

"Oh." That said, he promptly shrugged off the novelty.

Numerous packages were unloaded from the trunk of the car, as well as the family's luggage, and everyone trudged through the snow to the waiting house. Inside, Elsie hurried to add a couple of logs to the woodstove which filled the house's interior with welcome heat. The two families stripped out of their heavy coats with grateful sighs.

"That is a nice tree," Laurie declared, eying the beautifully decorated pine. Many of the decorations were obviously of the heirloom variety, while others had the haphazard handmade look of elementary school projects. Resting atop the tree was a delicate paper angel Elsie constructed the day the tree went up. There was a tab on the back which, when pulled, made the angel's wings unfold. Elsie made a different one each year, a tradition dating back to her grandparents' time.

"Walt cut it down himself," the old woman stated proudly, as if this were some major feat. Laurie smiled self-consciously; the tree she and Dan had back home was artificial, which she always felt was a cheat.

"I'm gonna go change!" Danny said and trotted up the stairs to her room. The others set about laying the newly arrived packages under the tree. Wally stared avidly. "Do we hafta wait till tomorrow?" he asked without much hope.

Dan smiled and mussed his son's hair. "C'mon. Tomorrow isn't that far off."

The boy's expression said he begged to differ.

Mona, out of sympathy—and not a little impatience of her own—ventured a suggestion. "Maybe we could each open one gift tonight and save the rest for tomorrow?"

"That'd be alright with me," Elsie said. The others quickly agreed. Wally grinned triumphantly.

It seemed the day cooperated with his wishes, as the hours passed quickly and afternoon slipped into the brief winter evening and into early night. As for Walter, he was sorry to see the time go. Each second he spent with his family on this holiday felt more precious than any that came before. The uncertainty of their future once Veidt's trial began brought an almost desperate edge to the celebration. They all knew there might not be another Christmas for them.

After dinner, Chloe went to the tree, picked up a small package, and handed it to her aunt. This became the signal for all of them to choose a gift and they did so with uncharacteristic silence, though there was no somberness to the mood. Walter passed a gift to his wife, who smiled and embraced him before she even opened it. It did not matter what he gave her, only that he gave it.

"Here, Daddy," Danny offered an oddly shaped package to her father. Walter took it with a curious smile. The gift, whatever it was, was small enough to fit in one hand. He carefully tore away the colorful paper, revealing what it concealed. His mouth fell open. Nestled in the tattered giftwrap was a familiar clay figure; a little German shepherd with a yellow Frisbee in its mouth. The sculpture Walter had shattered. Instead of throwing the pieces away, Danny spent hours carefully gluing them all back together. She looked up at her silent, stunned father. "D'you like it?" she asked, worried by his silence.

Oh, hell. Walter could feel the tears welling in his eyes. He didn't want to cry. Not on this day of all days. He blinked his eyes rapidly as he fought for self-control. His daughter watched him intently, wondering if she'd done wrong. Walter lowered himself onto one knee and drew her into a tight hug. "Thank you."

Danny wrapped her thin arms around his neck. "You're welcome."

Over his daughter's shoulder, Walter met Chloe's gaze and saw in her eyes the same thought as his own; he couldn't leave them. If the authorities found out about his past, he wouldn't be able to meekly allow them to arrest him and take him away from his family. If and when the time came, they would run. They would leave Jubilation and try to find someplace to start over, where nobody knew them. Walter would not allow himself to be separated from them. They would stay together, whatever the cost.


	20. Leaving Jubilation

**A/N:** The song at the end of this chappie is _Johnnie Comes Back_ by James Taylor. Aside from the fact that Johnnie in the song is a girl, I find it remarkable in that it's got a really peppy, upbeat sound until you actually pay attention to the lyrics, but even then you can't help but whistle along.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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Walter and Chloe helped the Dreibergs dig their car out from its blanket of snow. In the yard, a newly erected snow family stood with lopsided grins. Wally jammed a carrot nose onto the snow-kid's face and stepped back to view his handiwork. Beside him, Danny squinted critically. "It's crooked."

"They're all crooked," the boy argued.

"Yeah, but yours is crooked-er." She pointed. "His nose is right under his eye."

"So? Now he can see what he smells."

Danny regarded her friend. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."

Meanwhile, wielding a long-handled broom, Daniel lost his balance and fell into a snowdrift. _Fump._ The kids, Chloe, and Laurie burst into laughter. Walter grinned. Daniel flailed in the deep snow like a flipped tortoise, laughing at his own predicament. "Don't anybody help me or anything."

Walter stepped forward, hand outstretched. Dan's arm shot up and a powdery snowball burst against the redhead's face. Walter staggered back, sputtering, as the others redirected their amusement on him. "I'm sorry, man," Dan chuckled, managing to regain his feet, "I just couldn't resist."

Walter scowled, then suddenly bent down and grabbed a double handful of snow. Dan yelped, tried to dodge, but his legs were still mired in the drift. The snowball hit his face dead center and clung to his glasses. Blinded and off-balance, he spun his arms in a comical attempt to maintain his equilibrium only to fall back into the snowdrift once again. Walter smirked, then lurched when another snowball hit the back of his shoulder. He spun to confront the two laughing women. Chloe immediately pointed at Laurie, who glared in mock indignation. "Hey!" She scooped up some ammunition and flung it at the other woman, who shrieked and ducked only to get hit by a different missile hurled by her husband. Danny and Wally whooped and hurried to join the fray.

Inside, seated at the breakfast nook and drinking coffee, Elsie frowned and said, "What's all the ruckus?"

Seated across from her, Mona turned to peer through the window. "Snowball fight."

"Oh." The two of them returned their attention to their mugs.

Outside, Blake's head emerged from his doghouse, ears perked and mouth gripping his trusty old Frisbee. In the neighboring doghouse, Nixon snorted in mild annoyance at all the racket and turned until only his tail could be seen through the doorway. Blake barked in excitement, dropping his Frisbee, and rushed out to join the frantically running humans. He didn't know what the heck they were doing, but it sure looked fun. His eyes were drawn upward to see a spherical object sailing overhead. Ball! The German shepherd jumped and caught the object in his mouth. His triumph was short-lived.

_Cold!_ The instant his paws hit the ground the dog started hacking and coughing, scattering half-melted snow from his gaping mouth while the humans looked on and laughed.

Far beyond the driveway, the two or three most persistent photographers who stuck around in spite of the weather managed to get a few snapshots of the rollicking families who, though aware of their audience, were enjoying themselves far too much to give a damn.

Chloe hurled a snowball, striking Walter's chest. The redhead grinned at his wife and came at her. Chloe yelped, tried to run, but Walter was far more agile even in deep snow. She felt his strong arms encircle her waist and she squealed as her feet left the ground and the two of them toppled into a convenient snowbank. Chloe rolled onto her back, laughing breathlessly, and looked into her husband's shining blue eyes. "I love you," she laughed.

Walter, smiling, leaned over her to kiss the numb skin of her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. And all the while Chloe giggled and whispered, "I love you. I love you," until Walter pressed his lips to hers and silenced her.

"Knock it off, you two," Laurie shouted good-naturedly, "We're all going inside to warm up."

"Looks like things are already warming up for those two," Dan laughed, earning him a friendly punch in the shoulder from his wife. The two kids made fake gagging noises as they climbed the porch steps.

Walter reluctantly ended the kiss. "We'd better go inside."

"Do we have to?" Chloe pouted. Her expression was so childish Walter couldn't help but laugh. He got to his feet, held out his hand. Chloe took it and let him haul her out of the snowbank. They stood awhile together with their arms around each other, noses almost touching in an Eskimo kiss.

"Don't want this to end, either," Walter said, and she could see the underlying sadness in his eyes. Chloe leaned in to plant a kiss on his chapped lips.

"C'mon," she disentangled herself from his arms, took his gloved hand in her own, "Let's go get you warm."

Walter smiled and followed his wife into the house. Inside, the place was full of chatter. Everyone else was gathered in the kitchen, getting hot beverages into them and laughing over the fun they had outside. Walter and Chloe stowed their coats and boots, then quietly went upstairs to their bedroom.

Chloe sat on the edge of the bed and pulled down her pants, revealing the skintight long underwear she wore underneath. Walter leaned against the closed door and watched her undress. She looked up at him, quirked her mouth. "What?"

"Never could understand why you love me."

Chloe straightened, her expression sober. "It doesn't matter why."

"You know the things I did before. I killed—"

"Rorschach killed." Chloe rose, went to him. Her gentle hands, still chilled from the outdoors, rested against his weathered cheeks. "I didn't fall in love with Rorschach. I fell in love with _you_." She kissed him tenderly. "You are not Rorschach."

Walter returned her kiss. His hands went to her waist, crept under her baggy sweater, only to encounter her undershirt. He groaned in frustration. "Too many layers."

Chloe giggled; his favorite sound. "Guess you'll just have to work twice as hard." She started unbuttoning his outer shirt.

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"_Those whom heaven helps we call the sons of heaven._

_They do not learn this by learning._

_They do not work it by working._

_They do not reason it by using reason._

_To let understanding stop at what cannot be understood is a high attainment._

_Those who cannot do it will be destroyed on the lathe of heaven." —Chuang Tse_

Adrian paged through the copy of _The Lathe of Heaven_ by Ursula K. LeGuin. He'd been surprised when Silva wordlessly tossed him the book through the bars. Adrian never read it before; he always thought fiction to be a waste of time. But at the moment all he had was time, so he read and soon discovered a disturbing parallel. In LeGuin's future world, everything was a shambles; global warming, pollution, overpopulation, war. The main character, George Orr, discovered he had a dreadful gift; when he dreamed, he altered reality. No one believed him, naturally, until he went to see a psychologist named Haber. Haber figured out how to control Orr's dreams using hypnosis and was soon changing the world as he saw fit. Haber was not a villain; he genuinely wanted to make the world a better place. But every time he changed reality, he made humanity a little less human in the process. And all the while Orr argued that things should be left to their own devices, and all the problems would eventually work themselves out.

Veidt slammed the book shut and dropped it onto the floor. Was Silva mocking him? _Don't be ridiculous,_ he chided himself, _That would require him knowing the secret._ Besides, this sort of thing was far too subtle for the unsophisticated corrections officer. He picked up the book, stared at the cover: a ruined city superimposed with the image of a slumbering whey-faced man. The dreamer and the dream.

The trial would begin soon after New Year's Day. He could almost hear his attorney admonishing him to prepare. His old comrades were sure to be there; Nite Owl, Silk Spectre, Rorschach with his pretty wife. They would come to testify against him, and in so doing they would doom themselves. Vanderberg wouldn't be worth his staggeringly high fee if the defense attorney didn't dig up the ugly truths about Veidt's so-called victims. Then they would be the ones in prison.

Veidt shifted uncomfortably in his cot. The thought of his fellow Watchmen rotting in their own cells brought him no satisfaction. For all their many faults, Adrian could never accuse them of betraying their consciences. Until All Souls Day; then only Rorschach remained true to his principles. He never compromised.

Then why did he keep silent all these years?

Because he wasn't a fool. He knew no one would believe him.

And because he had something to lose; his wife and child. Adrian hated to admit it, but he envied the former mask. To be able to give one's heart over so completely…it was a luxury he could never afford. He certainly never believed Rorschach would ever allow himself to become so vulnerable to another. The very idea never even occurred to Veidt. It was absurd! Like claiming turtles could fly. And yet, there it was. Rorschach had a family. And, oh, he had fought so valiantly for them. Veidt saw it in his eyes; he would've fought until he died to protect the ones he so fiercely loved. Try as he might, Veidt could not muster such passion in himself. He wondered if he would see it again at the trial. He would not have to wait long to find out.

Adrian opened the book.

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Danny sat cross-legged on her bed watching the light outside her window turn from black to silver-gray to fiery pink-orange. Happy New Year. Today her parents would begin their journey to New York for the beginning of Adrian Veidt's trial. She'd wanted to go as well, but her parents said no. They didn't want her to see Veidt again, fearing how the sight of her attacker might affect her. So she would remain in Jubilation with Auntie, and wait.

In the bedroom across from Danny's, Walter's eyes cracked open and gradually focused on the slumbering woman beside him. He smiled as he recalled their lovemaking the night before, until he remembered what had motivated it. He and Chloe were leaving Jubilation, with the very real possibility of never returning. Should the worst happen and the truth of his past get out, Elsie was to meet them with Danielle at a previously chosen rendezvous—unless, of course, Walter was unable to get away before the cops arrested him. They could simply run now, he knew, but Walter wanted to attend the trial, to confront Veidt and give his testimony. Perhaps something good would come of it, perhaps not. But he had to try.

He listened to the sounds of the waking house, as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. The muted creaks of the settling house, the distant murmur of the radio Elsie switched on when she puttered around the kitchen making breakfast, the soft _fump_ of snow sliding off the roof and hitting the ground, the steady breathing of his wife. It was almost a week since the Dreibergs left after the Christmas holiday. Amazing how much quieter the place was without them, even in the early hours when hardly anyone was up.

Chloe groaned and stretched, interrupting Walter's musings. A faint snort escaped her, bringing a smile to her husband's face. Her hazel eyes opened, blue-rimmed and relaxed. She smiled. "Hey."

"Hey."

Her questing hand brushed against his chest, trailed slowly down. Walter's smile broadened. "Sure that's a good idea?"

"Uhuh." Lower still, until Walter's hand gripped her wrist.

"We have to leave this morning," he reminded her.

Chloe's expression sobered. She tugged her hand from his grip. "I know," she sighed sadly, "I just…wanted to delay the inevitable."

Walter brought her hand up to his lips, kissed her fingers. Then, with great reluctance, they rose from their bed and got dressed.

Elsie had made blueberry pancakes; something she usually only made on special occasions. In spite of the rare treat, Danny prodded her short stack with minimal enthusiasm. Her father seated himself across from her. Walter made himself eat his breakfast, though he had as little appetite as his daughter. Danny watched him eat, then tried to show a little more interest in her own pancakes. Chloe and Elsie joined them in the breakfast nook. There was no conversation, only the clink of metal against porcelain to break the heavy silence. Through the window could be seen a smattering of snowfall that added a thin layer of fresh powder over the ground.

Breakfast finished, they silently deposited their empty plates in the sink, then trooped over to the coat closet to throw on their heavy winter coats, hats, gloves, and boots. Walter's and Chloe's suitcases were already packed the night before and sat beside the front door in anticipation of their departure. Walter picked them up and the entire family stepped outside, the cold striking their faces like a harsh slap, crystallizing the tears which sprang to their eyes. Chloe hurried to unlock the trunk so her husband could stow their luggage, then the two of them returned to the porch where the rest of their family waited. Only then did they finally speak.

"You take good care of my baby," Chloe murmured into her aunt's ear as they embraced, "Don't let any of those goddamned reporters get their hooks into her."

"Course I won't," Elsie assured her, "She's my baby, too." She released the other woman, then turned to the silent redhead. Elsie smiled, held out her arms. "C'mon now."

He stepped into the old woman's embrace, throat tightening. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon with just a hint of smoke from the woodstove. Smells he associated with home and the mother he should have had. Elsie patted the space between his shoulder blades and told him, "Come home as soon as you can, sweetheart."

Walter drew away from her with a nod, though they both knew the chances of them ever returning were slim.

Squeezing her daughter tightly, Chloe said, "Be good while we're gone. Listen to your auntie."

"I will, Momma."

Chloe kissed her daughter, then stepped back to let Walter say his goodbye, surreptitiously dabbing the corner of her eye with her glove.

Walter knelt, smiling, and pulled his little girl into an embrace.

"'M not saying goodbye," Danny informed him solemnly, "'Cause I know you're gonna come back."

Walter felt a sting in his eyes as she said that. "I hope so."

"You're gonna come back," the girl repeated in a firm voice. Then she pulled back to kiss him, the sweetest kiss a daughter could bestow upon her father. "Love you, Daddy."

"Love you." He straightened, took Chloe's hand, and the two of them descended the porch steps to the waiting car. Elsie and Danny waved farewell to the retreating vehicle, the woman's hand resting on her grandniece's shoulder. As if sensing the momentousness of the couple's departure, both Blake and Nixon left the warm comfort of their doghouses to stand at the foot of the porch steps and watch the car's taillights disappear down the long driveway.

After a while, Elsie gently tugged the girl's shoulder. "C'mon, let's get back inside before we freeze our tailbones off."

"'Kay." Danny followed her auntie through the door, casting one final glance over her shoulder at the car's fading tracks.

Chloe stared through the back glass until the little blue house vanished from sight. Heavy-hearted, she shifted in the passenger seat until she faced front. Walter did not take his eyes from the road. His hands were sure on the steering wheel. He hadn't peered into the rear view mirror as they drove away; didn't want to risk losing what little resolve he possessed at the sight of his loved ones standing on the porch, waving forlornly. They drove for almost twenty minutes in silence before Chloe finally broke down and switched on the radio. She spun the dial, searching for something to distract her.

_"…reckless driver…_fsshht_…—ower of the Lord our Gawd!…_fssht_…right! No payments until nineteen ni—…"_

"Christ, isn't anybody playing music?" Chloe griped.

Walter reached into the pocket of the driver's door, riffled around, and pulled out a cassette. "Here." He passed it to his wife. She took it, read the title. The label was handwritten, some sort of personal mix.

"James Taylor?" She quirked an eyebrow.

Walter shrugged. "Calms me down."

Chloe snorted. She removed the cassette from its case and slid it into the car stereo's player. After the typical scritchy prelude, music burst from the speakers, startling Chloe with its unexpected liveliness.

"_All last week and half of today_

_Johnnie has been a good little girl_

_Trying to keep her devils at bay_

_Watching her health return_

_But she always comes back for more_

_Hanging her head and banging my door_

_Johnnie comes back again…"_

Chloe was amazed to see Walter tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the song. She had to admit, it was a cheery tune. She found herself tapping her toes to the beat.

"_Me, I'm just an evil demon_

_I'm playing on her weakness_

_Counting on her sickness_

_To bring her home again…"_

Chloe blinked. "Jeez, those lyrics are grim."

Walter smiled. "But the song _sounds_ cheerful."

His wife laughed. "You scoundrel! No wonder you like this song. It's about a pusher and his crack-whore!"

"_To use me up and to rob me blind_

_I guess it shouldn't surprise me_

_Fighting and flashing like a fish on a line_

_My God, she must despise me_

_But she always comes back again_

_Now it won't be long till she's gone again_

_Johnnie comes back again…"_

"Ugly truth beneath a thin veneer of upbeat music," Walter commented, "Just like real life."

"Even ours?" Chloe asked cheekily.

Her husband reached out to take her hand. "There's always exceptions."

They nodded their heads and hummed along to the happy-tragic song, their earlier melancholy forgotten for the time being. Chloe added her voice to the chorus.

"_I said, Johnnie remember_

_Oh, Johnnie be good_

_'Please give me some medicine, man'_

_Oh, Johnnie comes back again."_

And the miles to New York slowly and steadily shrank.


	21. Justice

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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**"_Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do." —The Comedian (movie)_**

The Dreibergs insisted that Walter and Chloe stay with them. Mona was kind enough to offer her room to the couple while she slept on the couch. After spending most of their first day sleeping off the exhausting trip, the newly arrived pair went to their appointed visit with the DA.

Chloe didn't know what to expect. The District Attorney's office was cluttered, yet there was an impression of order to it all. There was a large desk hidden somewhere under the mounds of case files, behind which sat a surprisingly diminutive Asian woman with silver-streaked raven hair cut sensibly short and intelligent almond-shaped eyes behind a pair of rimless spectacles. Upon the couple's entrance she flashed a welcoming smile and rose (standing, she was only a couple of inches taller than when she was seated). "Mr. and Mrs. Charleson, I'm District Attorney Nora Toshiro."

Each shook the woman's dainty out-thrust hand. A firm, dry grip. Short nails. That same hand indicated two comfortable-looking, if slightly aged, chairs. "Please, take a seat."

Toshiro resumed her own seat as the couple lowered themselves into the proffered chairs. She rested her hands before her on the desk's single cleared space, fingers interlaced, and leaned forward with an expression of professional earnestness. "Now, have either of you ever been involved in a trial before?"

Walter shook his head. Chloe shifted in her seat, feeling as if she were visiting the principal's office. "Um, I was called in for jury duty a couple of years ago." It was for a possession charge. When the judge indicated the accused and the young man turned to look at all the potential jurors, Chloe experienced a sudden, absurd impulse to wave at him. "Never got on the jury, though."

The DA's mouth creased in a tight little smile that was just shy of condescending. "Needless to say, this trial is considerably more high-profile. Unless the judge instructs otherwise, the courtroom is likely to be crowded with reporters. Their presence, along with the questions the defense is apt to throw at you, would create a highly stressful environment. Are you both certain you can handle this?"

"Would it make any difference if we said no?" Chloe asked.

Another smile, this time slightly rueful. "I'm afraid not. The evidence we have against Veidt is solid, but the most effective method to sway the jury is firsthand testimony. The defense is most likely to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Having the two of you tell your side of what happened that day might help to eliminate any misplaced sympathies the jury might hold for the accused."

The couple looked at each other. "We'll do whatever's needed," Walter said.

Toshiro nodded. "There is a matter of some delicacy I must address."

_Here it comes,_ Chloe thought.

"I have to ask, is there any truth whatsoever to the rumor that you are Walter Kovacs?"

"Since when does the DA care about baseless rumors?" Chloe deflected before her husband could respond.

Toshiro ignored her, regarded the silent redhead who unflinchingly returned her level stare. "I can assure you," she told him, "that if you are indeed Kovacs, and you cooperate fully—"

"I won't have to do any time?" he asked in a monotone voice that managed to convey a great deal of skepticism.

The attorney shook her head. "I'm afraid not. What we can offer is an extremely lenient prison sentence. One short enough that you would only have to miss a few years of your daughter's childhood. It's far better than what you could expect otherwise."

Walter frowned; every year of his child's life was far too precious to miss. He shook his head. "I am not Rorschach." Out of the DA's sight, Chloe squeezed her husband's hand. Walter squeezed back, grateful for her unspoken support.

Toshiro nodded, accepting his statement. If she experienced any disbelief, she kept it exceptionally well hidden. "I would like to run some questions by you, both ones I plan to ask as well as those the defense are most likely to cross-examine you with. Veidt's attorney will try to rattle you, and it's best to be prepared."

Both Chloe and Walter nodded.

Hours later, they exited the sterile warmth of the DA's office building for the frigid noise of the teeming city streets.

"That wasn't so bad," Chloe muttered, clutching Walter's arm with a tight grip that belied her statement. Some of the questions Toshiro threw at her bordered on offensive, implying such things as extortion and grabbing at fame without actually making any outright accusations. More than once both he and his wife had to bite back angry responses. Walter could only imagine how much worse it would be when they confronted Veidt's lawyer.

"You handled it well."

Chloe snorted. "Sure. I was about five seconds away from smackin' her. And she's supposed to be on _our_ side!"

Walter pursed his lips. "Do you think I should have taken her offer? Told her who I was?"

She threw him a look of disbelief. "No. We already decided."

He sighed. "But a few years in prison instead of decades—"

"It's not going to happen." Chloe frowned at her husband's troubled profile. "Are you having second thoughts?" she asked quietly.

"Aren't you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what it is. Maybe Danny's weird optimism's rubbing off on me, but I'm really starting to think everything will be okay."

Walter uttered a short, humorless laugh and tilted his head back, looking up at the cloudy sky. Why was it that his memories of the city were filled with cloudy days? He lowered his gaze and his eyes caught sight of something that made him pause mid-step. It was so sudden that Chloe accidentally gave his arm a yank when she kept going. She frowned at his odd behavior. "What is it?"

Instead of a response, Walter started to walk in a different direction, towing his puzzled wife along. They crossed the semi-busy street in a diagonal path, earning themselves one or two irritated honks from passing motorists. Walter seemed intent on a particular brick wall ahead of them, its weathered facade a mishmash of overlapping graffiti. He reached out with a gloved hand and traced the edge of a large blot that might once have been black but faded over the years to a grayish patina. Only when she watched the movements of his fingertips did Chloe's eyes discern the shape. She gasped. "Oh! They're…"

Walter nodded. Underneath the more recent colorful slashes and lines of unintelligible gang emblems was the faded image of a silhouetted couple. "Started showing up all over the place at the height of the last nuclear scare. Thought they looked like ghosts."

"Like those shadows left behind in Hiroshima," Chloe sighed. She leaned against her husband. "Y'know what I think they are?"

He shook his head.

"Two strangers passing by each other on the street, neither one of them knowing or caring about the other, until the Bomb suddenly falls." Walter could hear the capitalized B, just the way older generations pronounced the dreaded nuclear weapons; The Bomb. "They jump at the sudden flash of light," Chloe continued, "and turn to see the mushroom cloud blooming in the distance, roaring like an angry god, and they both understand at the same instant that it's the end. They turn to each other, see the exact same fear in each other's eyes; the fear of dying alone. So they rush into each other's arms, just before the shockwave hits, for one last moment of human contact."

Walter smiled at her. "Such a romantic."

Chloe laughed, somewhat embarrassed by her flight of fancy. "Well, what do _you_ see?"

"At the time," he stared at the wall with remembered sadness, "I saw what I couldn't have."

The melancholy in his voice, in his ice-blue eyes, brought Chloe a sense of the loneliness her husband once experienced. She bit her lip, swallowed a lump in her throat. "And now?"

Walter turned to her, looked at her with an intense love that robbed her lungs of air. Her hand went to his rough cheek, his skin ruddy with the cold. He put his hands on her waist, stepped close to her. Smiling, they leaned into each other until their mouths met in a lingering kiss. They stood in a shared embrace amidst the indifferent passersby, echoing the ghostly image painted on the wall by frightened youths now long dead.

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A strange routine developed between Veidt and his guard. Every few days Roberto Silva tossed a novel into Veidt's cell. When Adrian finished with it, he left it resting in the slot where his food tray wash pushed through. Silva picked it up, and then the cycle began anew. Neither one of them spoke during this odd exchange. Silva continued with his smarmy remarks and Veidt continued to ignore them. He had no idea why the corrections officer brought these random literary offerings and he was not about to give the man the satisfaction of asking.

He was reading _Only Begotten Daughter_ by James Morrow when his lawyer arrived. Veidt marked his place and set the novel aside as Charles Vanderberg entered the cell. "Hello, Van."

"Adrian." Vanderberg took a seat on the cot beside his client and set his briefcase on the floor by his feet. He rested his hands on his knees, regarded the silent man beside him with serious gray eyes. "They arrived yesterday."

"Rorschach and his wife."

The lawyer nodded. "They've already been to the DA's office."

Veidt's eyelids lowered a moment in thought. "I would like you to arrange for us to meet."

Vanderberg blinked. "You and Charleson?" He persisted in using the name unless and until his identity was proven otherwise.

"Yes. An informal meeting. No lawyers." Veidt regarded his attorney with a dispassionate eye. Though he was capable of extreme charm when circumstances necessitated it, the times when Adrian simply conversed with someone he did so with a coolness most found off-putting. It wasn't that he kept his emotions hidden—a necessary survival trait for anyone in the public eye—so much that one got the impression that he didn't _have_ any emotions. Even Vanderberg, who'd known and worked with Veidt for many years, was not immune to this discomfiture, though he was skilled at keeping it hidden. But many times when he left his client's presence, the lawyer would shudder with the memory of that cold stare.

"I hardly see how such an encounter would be beneficial, assuming he even agrees to it." It was a halfhearted protest; Veidt was not prone to changing his mind once a decision was made.

"I'm certain you can persuade him," Adrian smiled, an expression as lifeless as that of a mannequin. Vanderberg would be shuddering extra hard later on.

"I'll see what I can do," he sighed, "But I make no promises."

Veidt nodded, satisfied as always in his attorney's obedience.

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Danny ran, holding the red plastic sled before her like a shield, leapt, and landed heavily on the slope. The sled skidded rapidly down the snowy hill. The trees at either side of her sped by in a dark blur. The icy wind whistled past her ears, carrying her elated whoops in a long trail behind her like the flapping scarf at her neck. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Seth on his dark green sled racing her to the bottom of the hill. "I'm gonna beat ya!" she declared, her words torn away by the blistering wind. Seth grinned, a flash of white against his brown skin, and shook his stocking-capped head.

The steep hillside swarmed with children and even some adults, riding sleds and toboggans of every color and description. The hill was located on Craig Danvers's and Adam Leonetti's property and had been the town's main sledding choice for many years. It became a tradition for the partnered men to provide various hot beverages and pastries to the chilled participants. Elsie sat within the warm confines of their house, a mug of cocoa in her hands, watching her grandniece and the other kids playing in the snow with a wistful smile on her face. In a fair world Chloe and Walter would be out there with their daughter, sledding and tumbling down the hill, laughing their heads off, cheeks burned from the cold. It always gave the old woman such joy to watch her family at play, their pure and innocent joy. If anyone deserved such experiences, it was Chloe and Walter, considering the tragedies of their pasts. Especially Walter. It always brought Elsie a rush of maternal warmth to see the emotionally scarred redhead regress. They were rare and precious moments when he reclaimed the childhood so long denied him.

A few nights before he and Chloe left for New York, Walter came downstairs in his sweatpants and T-shirt to find Elsie sitting quietly on the sofa, watching the muted television. The two insomniacs had regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Walter moved to the couch. Without a word, he lay down and rested his head on the older woman's knee, seeking comfort which could only be found in a mother, or a mother-figure. Smiling, Elsie had stroked his graying hair and hummed a slow tune until his even breaths told her he'd fallen asleep. Part of her always regretted not having children. With her niece's family living with her, she managed to experience some aspects of motherhood she would not have been able to enjoy otherwise. It made their current absence all the more painful to her.

"Mind if I share your view?"

Elsie turned to find Adam behind her, a steaming cup in his hand. She smiled, shrugged. "It's your house."

Adam dragged a chair over beside hers and sat down. The vapor emanating from his mug carried the spicy scent of hot cider. He blew away some of the steam, took a careful sip. "I can never pass up the chance to see Craig make an ass of himself."

As if on cue, an unmistakeable bulky form appeared on the hilltop carrying an old yet sturdy wooden sled. Craig set the sled on the ground, straddled the antique conveyance, and pushed off with his powerful legs. For a moment it seemed he might reach the bottom without mishap, but then the sled made an unexpected swerve onto a pronounced bump and Craig went tumbling off like a human avalanche. Adam and Elsie laughed as Craig's distant roar reached their ears and they watched the burly schoolteacher roll down to the foot of the hill, his riderless sled bumping into his inert form seconds later.

Adam chuckled. "He is dead set on making it down that hill one of these days." He gave the old woman a sidelong glance. "How's Danny?"

"Handlin' things better than I am." Elsie took a sip from her mug, grimaced at its tepid contents.

"Walt and Chloe been calling?"

"Yep. Every evening before Danny's bedtime, like clockwork."

Their eyes remained fixed on the activities outside. Craig was struggling up the hill, dragging his sled behind him. At one point he lost his balance and fell flat on his face, earning a fresh round of laughter from his fellow sledders. He regained his feet and continued his climb. Elsie grinned; she could almost hear his swearing.

"Trial's gonna be starting soon," Adam remarked, "Got anything planned?"

Elsie hesitated; she knew what he meant, though she kept the family's plan to reunite and run off should Walter's identity get out to herself. The townspeople didn't need to implicate themselves any further. Still, there was something she needed to ask of a friend.

"If you wouldn't mind," she began, "Danny and I might have to leave for a while. Would you and Craig look after the dogs in the meantime?"

Adam met her gaze, and she saw in his eyes that he understood. He nodded. "Sure, Els. We'd be happy to."

"Thanks."

They watched as Craig and the kids lined up for another race down the hill, all of them lost in the moment, their worries forgotten for a few precious hours.

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They heard the phone ring when they entered the Dreibergs' home. Mona answered it as the couple put away their coats and removed their snow-encrusted boots. "Hollis residence."

_"Good evening,"_ a proper voice sounded on the other end, _"Would Hiram Charleson be available?"_

The nanny rolled her eyes. Another reporter. They'd been getting calls like this off and on ever since Walter's and Chloe's arrival. So much for keeping a low profile. "I'm afraid not. Could I take a message?"

_"Yes. My name is Charles Vanderberg. I am Adrian Veidt's attorney."_

Mona's eyebrows shot up. "Er, just a sec. I need to find a pen." She balanced the receiver on her shoulder, grabbed a pencil from the cup by the phone, scribbled a quick note on a piece of scratch paper. Her other hand beckoned Walter over. Puzzled, the redhead approached as Mona held up her note: _Veidt's lawyer!_

Walter frowned. He held out his hand.

"Wait! He just stepped through the door." Mona passed him the phone.

Walter pressed the receiver to his ear. "Hello."

_"Hello, Mr. Charleson. I'm Charles Vanderberg, Adrian Veidt's attorney."_

"What do you want?" Beside him, Chloe leaned in to catch the other half of the conversation. Walter tilted the receiver slightly to accommodate her. The lawyer's tinny voice issued forth.

_"Mr. Charleson, my client would like to request a private meeting with you. It does not pertain to the coming trial. There will be no legal representatives present, only yourself and Mr. Veidt."_

Walter frowned. "What for?"

_"I cannot answer that,"_ was Vanderberg's cool response, _"Mr. Veidt made it clear that this is a private matter."_

Walter pursed his lips. His first impulse was to say no or simply hang up without the trouble of a response, but his curiosity nagged at him. "Need to give it some thought."

_"Very well. When you've decided, call me back at this number…"_

Walter scribbled down the number, then hung up the phone. He looked at his wife, who stood with her arms crossed. "What's to think about?" she asked, clearly vexed.

Mona decided to make a tactful exit while the two of them discussed this. The couple didn't even notice.

"Shouldn't dismiss anything Veidt says out of hand," Walter reasoned.

Chloe snorted. "Please! He's either gonna threaten you or try to weasel some kinda deal."

"Maybe," he conceded.

"And?"

"And…I still think I should see him."

"What the hell for?" Chloe snapped, "You _know_ what kind of manipulative bastard he is! Going to see him's the worst thing you could do."

Walter took hold of her shoulders. He could feel the tension running through her, saw the fear and anger in her eyes at the memory of what Veidt did to them. "You're probably right."

"I am right," she said stubbornly.

"But I still need to know why he wants to see me."

"No you don't." Now Chloe's voice held an edge of anxiety. She gripped her husband's arms, his hands still on her shoulders. "Nothing he'd say could possibly make any difference. He just wants to screw with your head."

Walter pulled her into a hug. She clung to him, her head against his shoulder. It occurred to Walter that they might very well be coming to the end of the times they would be able to hold each other, and the thought made him tighten his grip. "If you don't want me to go," he told her, "then I won't."

Chloe let her breath out in a long, shuddering sigh. "You wanna know what really sucks about this? If you do turn him down, we're both gonna kick ourselves for it later on, wondering if it might've made a difference."

Walter smiled. "Yeah."

"It's just," Chloe blinked her stinging eyes, "I'm still afraid of him."

"I know," he rubbed her back in soothing circular motions, "I am, too."

He called Vanderberg to accept Veidt's invitation.

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_This is a mistake,_ Laurie thought, steering the car into the prison's parking lot. She'd offered the ride when she saw how nervous Chloe and Walter were. Well, she could only assume Walter was nervous; Laurie was damned if she could read the guy. Nevertheless, they accepted her offer. When she and Dan came home after spending the afternoon with their son in the park, they were shocked to hear about the lawyer's call and even more so when Walter told them he was going to see Veidt.

"You sure you wanna do that?" Dan asked.

Laurie was more blunt. "That's crazy! What the hell are you thinking?"

But Walter's mind was made up. His friends had to resign themselves to that fact, as Chloe had.

The last time Laurie was inside Sing-Sing, she was in costume and beating the hell out of rioting prisoners. Now she was in street clothes and languishing in the drab waiting room with Chloe while Walter was taken to the visitation room. Laurie picked up a tattered _Reader's Digest_ and leafed through it while Chloe sat with crossed arms and stared apathetically at the waiting room's green-tinted TV, her right leg jiggling.

Walter was taken into a small room where he was patted down and run through a metal detector. He also had to sign some paperwork stating that he was aware the conversation he had with the prisoner might be recorded. Once that was done, a bored officer handed him a visitor's badge to wear around his neck and indicated the door on the other side of the room. "You got half an hour. Not a second longer."

Walter doubted he needed that much time. He stepped through the door and into the visitation area. The room was divided in half by a long counter and wire-reinforced glass, a row of chairs on each side of the divide with small side partitions to give the illusion of privacy. There were no other visitors in the room. The walls were dirty off-white, the headache-inducing fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, and the air smelled of industrial cleanser and hopelessness. Walter hated it. It reminded him of his brief stay in this very prison. He resisted the urge to look up at the security camera that he knew was situated in the upper corner of the room and wandered over to the nearest seat. No sooner did he lower himself into the uncomfortable chair than the door on the other side of the barrier opened and Veidt strode in, accompanied by an apathetic guard who lounged against the wall as the prisoner went to take the seat opposite Walter.

Veidt held himself with his usual dignified poise which somehow managed to make even his drab prison garb look fashionable. Like Walter, his injuries from their confrontation had healed, the cast on his arm removed. Veidt smiled serenely and picked up the black telephone receiver from its cradle on one of the side partitions. Walter did likewise, glaring suspiciously.

_"Hello…Hiram,"_ Veidt's mouth quirked at the use of Walter's alias, _"You're looking well."_

Walter snapped, "What do you want?"

_"You must have met with the District Attorney already. I trust you were forthcoming."_ Veidt's voice crackled faintly over the poorly maintained intercom.

"I told the truth."

_"All of it?"_ the former mask smirked, _"That would certainly be the wisest course of action. They could offer you a more lenient sentence."_

"Sentence for what?" Walter asked dully, thinking of the recording taking place at that moment, "You're the one who committed the crime."

Veidt seemed amused by the redhead's continued secrecy. _"That's good. Because, hypothetically, if any of the rumors about you are true, the authorities are bound to find out. All it would take is one little suggestion put forth by my capable attorney…"_ He pressed his fingertip against the transparent barrier between them, leaving a smudged fingerprint on the glass. _"…and the cozy little life you've built with that lovely wife of yours would tumble down like a house of cards."_

Walter stared at the fingerprint on the glass, heart pounding. He thought of everything he'd touched since he entered the building, the fingerprints he was leaving on the telephone receiver at that moment. He stamped down the impulse to start wiping everything. His hand clenched around the receiver, white-knuckled. If Veidt's lawyer did request Walter's fingerprints be taken, the police would make the comparison while he was still in the room, surrounded by cops. They'd find out the truth within minutes and arrest him at once. Escape would be impossible. His only chance would be to take his family and run off before the trial even started, but that would only confirm the rumors and make Veidt look like a hero rather than a villain.

Walter squeezed his eyes shut. Why did he believe there was ever a chance that Veidt would be punished?

Veidt continued in a conversational tone, ignoring the other man's obvious distress. _"I must admit, you were the last person I ever expected to have a family. What must it be like for someone like you? To have a child when you know all the dangers this world holds, the terrible things that can befall an innocent such as her. How much worse it would be without a father's protection."_

Walter's eyes popped open. He glared at the man across from him, muscles writhing in his jaw, fists clenched. Veidt tilted his head as if in curiosity. _"You must be thinking about her now, that innocent little girl who looks so much like you. It would be worse than a tragedy to miss out on her life. Will you be there when she has her next nightmare? See her blushing over her first crush? Comfort her when her heart is broken? Watch her grow into a young woman, fall in love, start a family of her own? It would be difficult to experience all that from my side of the barrier, assuming she would even visit—"_

Walter slammed down the receiver and stood. The guard saw the sudden movement and straightened, wondering if the visit was over. But Walter hadn't actually hung up his receiver, and he wasn't headed for the door. For a moment he felt Rorschach's rage surge in him, telling him to smash his way through the reinforced glass and tear Veidt's goddamned throat out. Instead, he turned away and began pacing in hard, jerking steps, hands trembling at his sides. Veidt rested his receiver in the crook of his arm and calmly watched the redhead pace up and down the echoing room. Several minutes elapsed. The guard returned to his earlier slouched position against the wall. Finally, Walter sat back down and picked up the discarded phone. Veidt pressed his own receiver to his ear and continued as if the interruption never happened.

_"The family you've built in that little town must be so very precious to you, especially considering what your life was like before. So much to lose. Unlike a certain individual I once knew, who had nothing but his obstinate integrity. He never compromised; held on to the bitter end."_ He stared at the trembling redhead before him. _"What about you? Hmm? What would you do to keep your family?"_

He was beaten. Goddamn it, Veidt beat him again. Just like Antarctica; always a dozen steps behind the world's smartest man. The faces of Walter's family flitted through his mind. Elsie, the mother he should've had. Chloe, the missing half of his soul. Danielle… His little girl. His baby. Oh please, God, he couldn't lose them. He would do anything. He would lie and say it wasn't Veidt who attacked him after all. He would say it was all a mistake. Anything!

"Anything." The word came out in a ragged whisper. He felt the bitter tears threatening to overflow. "I'll do anything."

The former mask licked his lips. _"Could you guarantee that a certain secret would _remain_ secret?"_

Walter's heart sank. He thought about the journal in Godfrey's and Roth's possession, soon to be published and unleashed on the world. He rasped hopelessly, "No."

Adrian nodded as if he expected as much. _"There is something else you can do for me."_ He leaned in close as if to whisper through the glass. Walter leaned in as well, face haggard with desperation. Was it a reflection, or was there a sheen to Veidt's eyes?

"What is it?" Walter all but begged.

Veidt's soft, almost feminine lips parted. _"Please convey my apologies to your family."_ And with that, he hung up the receiver, stood, and walked away.

The redhead watched in dismay as the man in the prison grays left the room, accompanied by his guard. The phone receiver slipped from Walter's slackened grip, forgotten, and clattered against the scarred countertop. He rose from the chair in a daze, shuffled through the narrow hallway. The corrections officer who'd processed him earlier quirked an eyebrow at the redhead's state. "You alright, buddy?"

Walter blinked at him. "Bathroom."

The guard indicated the direction with a jerk of his chin. Walter drifted to the door marked RESTROOM and pushed through. The room stank of poorly cleaned toilets and chemicals. He went to the nearest sink, turned the tap. Cold water gushed out in a sputtering stream, overflowed in his cupped hands. Walter splashed the cold water on his face. Its icy coldness barely registered. He raised his head and stared into the spotty mirror, water dripping from his chin and the end of his nose.

Chloe was right. He never should have agreed to this meeting. Even ensconced behind a plexiglass wall Veidt toyed with him like a cat with an injured mouse, batting him around until he reeled from disorientation, teasing him with the illusion of escape and then dragging him back with a savage jerk. Walter knew he hadn't escaped from this encounter; he was let go because he had nothing left to bargain with, and Veidt simply lost interest.

Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it down. He'd already let its destructive influence into his life too many times before. He would not do so again. Even if it was only a matter of time before he was captured and imprisoned, he would not let that eventuality overshadow what little time he had remaining with those he loved. Whether he and his family managed to escape or found themselves forcibly separated, Walter was resigned to the fact that it was no longer in his control. If it ever was.

A memory rose in his thoughts; the very first meeting of the Watchmen. The Comedian's open disdain for the younger generation of masked adventurers' grand ambitions. He said none of it mattered. And Rorschach, younger, more naïve in his idealism, retorted, "Justice matters."

"Justice!" Comedian scoffed. Then, though his face still showed his mocking grin, his tone took one a somber note, "Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do."

Rorschach hadn't understood then, but Walter understood now.

He straightened, dried his face with an abrasive paper towel, and exited the bathroom with calm acceptance.

Chloe stood the instant she saw her husband step through the door into the waiting room. His face was even more pale and drawn than it usually was. She hurried to him and wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace. "What happened?"

Drawing comfort from her closeness, Walter replied in what he hoped was a steady voice, "Nothing important." An obvious lie, but he couldn't bring himself to share his emotionally jarring conversation with Veidt and thus shatter Chloe's fragile optimism.

Chloe knew he was holding back, but decided not to press the issue. Whatever Veidt said to her husband could not have been good.

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Adrian requested a phone to call his attorney. Silva brought him one, grumbling that he was not a goddamn secretary and Veidt could use smoke signals in the future as far as he was concerned. Veidt ignored the guard's remarks as always. As he dialed the number, he kept his back to the bars. After a single ring, the melodious voice of Thoth answered, _"Good evening, Adrian."_

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The morning of the trial. Dan and Laurie, Chloe and Walter, all arrived at the courthouse together. They entered the proud, austere building, found their way into some seats. Already the courtroom was crowded with row upon row of reporters and journalists. Among them were Doug Roth and Hector Godfrey, each seated far from each other, media rivals to the end. Laptop keyboards clacked, cameras flashed, tape recorders hummed. People muttered into microphones and scribbled on notepads.

Chloe grasped her husband's hand, sharing his anxiety for the uncertain future. Neither one of them had slept the previous night. They lay awake in the dark of the unfamiliar room, their silence ringing with unspoken fears. Still, the moments their eyes met Chloe managed a hopeful smile. She had little idea how painful it was for Walter to see it. He still hadn't told her what happened during his visit to the prison the previous day because he didn't want her to panic, but now he felt as if his resolve to remain silent might crack at any moment. He opened his mouth to speak to her.

"All rise."

His jaws snapped shut. The room was filled with the sound of shuffling feet as everyone rose from their chairs.

"Court is now in session," the overweight bailiff proclaimed, "The Honorable Leland Pryce presiding."

A middle-aged black man made his stately entrance, resplendent in his flowing black robes. He mounted the steps to the dais on which his chair rested, and lowered himself into it. "Be seated."

More shuffling as all in the room sat. There were the sounds of riffling papers, the occasional muffled cough. The judge slipped on a pair of reading glasses and perused the pages arranged before him. A moment later, his basso voice rang out. "Would the defendant please stand."

Veidt and his lawyer both rose to their feet. From where he sat Walter could just make out the accused's profile. As expected, Veidt's face revealed nothing but total aplomb.

"Adrian Veidt," Judge Pryce spoke, "You stand accused of multiple assaults and attempted murder in the first degree. Do you understand these charges?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Veidt replied calmly.

"How do you plead?"

Walter squeezed his wife's hand. The reporters' eyes were riveted on the back of the defendant's blonde head.

Lips curved in the faintest serene smile, Adrian replied, "Guilty."


	22. In the Wake of His Confession

**A/N:** The journal excerpt's taken directly from the graphic novel.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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They sat in a coffee shop located near the courthouse, arrayed around a small circular table with steaming white mugs set before them. It was Laurie who finally gave voice to what they all thought: "What the hell just happened?"

What happened? Their minds reviewed the events that occurred just moments ago. For several long seconds after Veidt's fateful and completely unexpected plea, there was stillness, as if the reality of the courtroom was a massive video replay that someone paused. Jaws hung slack, eyes bugged, cameras and tape recorders spun on, forgotten. Then the dam broke and all erupted into a roaring flood of voices. Only Walter, Chloe, the Dreibergs, and Adrian Veidt himself remained silent, the latter's face suffused with a beatific smile.

Judge Pryce rapped his gavel, the sound drowned out by the riotous media. "Order! Order!"

Walter's perceptions were those of a surreal dream. His head turned to meet his equally gobsmacked wife's gaze. Turned his head again to look at Daniel and Laurie, their mouths open in wordless astonishment.

The activity amongst the reporters and journalists grew increasingly chaotic. All of them were shouting at Veidt, at the judge, at each other, waving microphones and pens as crusaders once wielded their swords in battle. The bailiffs tried in vain to calm the situation while the increasingly flush-faced judge continued to ram his gavel upon the desk until the slender wooden handle snapped from the force. His Honor scowled at the splintered bit of wood in his grip, then tossed it aside. He rose to his feet, staring daggers at the irrepressible mob. With utmost dignity he bent down to remove his shoe, then straightened and, gripping the item of footwear by the toe, brought the thick heel down on the desk's surface with an explosive BAM! "Order!" BAM, BAM, BAM! _"Order in the goddamned court!"_

The judge's bellow finally got through to the unruly mob and everything quieted to a more civilized volume. Pryce sighed, resumed his seat. "Bailiff, clear the courtroom of all reporters. And get me another gavel."

The newspeople did not take their expulsion kindly. Their voices began to rise once again. Judge Pryce slammed his shoe heel down on the desk, silencing their protests. "I will not have my court turned into a circus," he stated firmly, "The media are no longer allowed in these proceedings. I am declaring a twenty minute recess and then we shall continue the trial in an orderly manner." He rapped the desk a final time, then slipped his shoe back on his foot.

As the grumbling reporters were herded out, Adrian, who sat down during the entire outburst, turned in his chair until his eyes met those of the stunned redhead. For no more than a heartbeat the powerful businessman allowed his unreadable façade to slip and Walter saw what lay beneath. Walter's slack mouth closed and his throat tightened. Then the moment passed and Veidt's face was once more a mask of confidence devoid of emotion. His attorney leaned over to murmur something in his ear, and Veidt turned his attention away from his fellow former member of the Watchmen.

A light touch on his shoulder drew Walter's attention to his wife who said, "Let's get outta here." And so they all wandered to the café and attempted to wrap their minds around what occurred.

"He said 'Guilty,'" Dan murmured in a distant voice.

Chloe shook her head, brow creased in a bewildered frown. "Why?"

Walter's quiet voice replied, "He said he was sorry."

His wife an friends gave him identical quizzical looks. He focused on Chloe, gripped her hand in both of his as he explained. "When I went to see him, he told me he was sorry. I thought—I thought he was only trying to mess with my head." He squeezed her hand. "But he meant it."

"Why would he be sorry _now?_" Laurie asked, frustrated by her confusion, "Especially after everything else he's done."

"Maybe it was one sin too many for his conscience to handle," Dan speculated.

Chloe, her eyes still riveted to her husband's earnest gaze, shook her head. "I don't care why he said it." She reached up with her free hand to rest against his stubbled cheek. Her eyes shone with relief. "We're gonna be okay," she whispered.

Walter smiled, nodded. "Yes, we are."

* * *

It was perhaps the shortest high-profile trial in history. With the guilty plea, the members of the jury found themselves superfluous before they even had the chance to warm their seats, and neither the Dreibergs nor Walter and Chloe were required to testify. The DA requested the maximum sentence, and Veidt offered no protest, much to his lawyer's thin-lipped disapproval.

This unexpected turn of events put the media into another frenzy. Veidt's already shaky public image took a nosedive. Stock values in Veidt Industries plunged. Adrian became known as a fallen angel, once divine in his generosity and scientific advancements for the betterment of humanity, now irredeemably corrupted by an incident of violence that remained unsatisfactorily explained.

Walter and Chloe discussed seeing the sentencing through, but decided against it. Both of them were anxious to get home to their daughter. Talking to her and Elsie on the phone reminded them how much they missed them, and how fortunate they were to be able to return to them.

_"Told ya everything'd be okay,"_ Danny said during their last call. Her parents smiled in a mixture of amusement and relief. They were using the Dreibergs' phone which was equipped with a speaker so that both could talk to their daughter at the same time.

"You sure did," Chloe agreed, "Guess we should listen to you more often."

_"When're you comin' home?"_

"Soon, baby."

"We'll be leaving tomorrow," Walter added.

Elsie's voice emitted from the speaker. _"You'll hardly recognize the place. Not a reporter in sight. All that fuss bein' made about Veidt and it's like they completely forgot you even exist."_ She snorted at the fickleness of mainstream news.

"Fine with us," Chloe responded sardonically, "If I never see another camera lens pointed at me it'll be too soon."

_"I still can't believe he just gave in like that."_

"Yeah. Broadsided everybody."

_"Well, I for one ain't about to question it. I'm just glad it's all over."_

Not quite, Walter thought. Veidt had yet to take responsibility for the worldwide attack blamed on Dr. Manhattan. Until that happened, Walter doubted the millions of lives lost that day would ever rest in peace.

A few hours after their call home, there was a knock at the door. Daniel answered it to find himself confronted by two wildly different looking men who nevertheless bore the unmistakeable glint in their eyes he'd come to associate with reporters. "Sorry, guys. We're not taking any questions."

"We're not here on any official business," said the younger man with the mustache, whom Dan recognized as Doug Roth of the _Nova Express_, of which he was a faithful subscriber. "May we come in?"

Dan hesitated. "Well…"

The other man spoke. "If you let your friend know we're here, I'm sure he'll want to see us."

Reluctantly, Dan stepped aside to admit the two men, then went to fetch Walter. The redhead appeared moments later, followed by his wife and the rest of the household, drawn by curiosity. Hector Godfrey smiled warmly at the former masked hero, a rare expression for him. "Congratulations, Walter. Things couldn't have worked out better for you."

Walter gave a noncommittal shrug. "That why you're here?"

"We wanted you to have something." Godfrey reached into his satchel and brought out a hardback book. Its dustcover depicted a familiar tattered leather-bound journal superimposed over an old snapshot of Rorschach with his jack-o-lantern grin. The title read: _Rorschach's Journal: The Truth Behind All Souls Day._ "Advance copy. Hot off the press."

Walter accepted the book with a decided lack of enthusiasm. The others seemed more impressed, peering over his shoulders to get a look at the cover.

"It's actually been published?" Chloe asked, sounding impressed.

Roth replied in a boastful voice, "Yep. We've already had offers from several major book retailers who are anxious to distribute it. Timing couldn't be better, with public opinion on Veidt at an all-time low. They're bound to be more open to what your journal has to say."

Walter handed the book to his wife, who immediately cracked it open to read the inside of the dustcover. The spine was so stiff with newness the cover gave an audible creak when opened. Walter regarded the two beaming journalists. "Thank you."

"No, Walter," Godfrey shook his head, "Thank _you_ for entrusting your journal to me so that the truth could be known." He held out his hand. "It's been my privilege to have met you."

Surprised by the gesture, Walter accepted the journalist's outstretched hand. Roth as well shook hands with the former vigilante, and then the two newsmen departed.

Walter turned to see his wife and friends staring in fascination at the book's contents. Chloe fanned the pages, catching glimpses of photos scattered throughout, images of Walter, of Rorschach, the Watchmen, and pictures of the journal open to reveal its author's spidery script. She settled on a random entry, carefully typewritten to easier legibility:

_…42__nd__ Street: Women's breasts draped across every billboard, every display, littering the sidewalk. Was offered Swedish love and French love…but not American love. American love; like Coke in green glass bottles…They don't make it anymore._

_ …Violent lives, ending violently. Dollar Bill, the Silhouette, Captain Metropolis…We never die in bed. Not allowed. Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to do._

It's grim content saddened her. She looked at the date and realized it was written during the time of their separation, when she went to Jubilation to care for her ailing aunt. Chloe met her husband's blue eyes in understanding. "You gave up your principles for me."

Walter smiled, shook his head. "Gave them up for something better."

"For the chance to die in bed?" the words were out before she could stop them, and she wondered how he would take them.

If anything, Walter's smile broadened, even as his eyes welled with remembered loneliness. He drew her into a tight embrace.

Wally peered at the book clutched in Chloe's hand which hung loose at her side. "Can I read it?"

Daniel made a face. "Uh, maybe when you're older, kiddo."

The boy could tell from both his parents' expressions that they mentally added the words: _Much older._ He didn't bother to hide his disappointment.

* * *

They drove far longer than they should have, with few stops along the way, so anxious were they to get home. Consequently, it was nighttime when they pulled into the driveway. Despite the lateness of the hour, the lights in the little blue house shone through the curtained windows and Elsie was out on the porch before the exhausted couple reached the steps. They set their bags down to embrace her, then hurried inside to escape the cold.

Danny, clad in a flannel nightgown, dashed out of her room and ran down the stairs, her bare feet thumping on the steps with the gravity of a child twice her size. "Daddy! Momma!" Her thin arms went around each of their waists and she leaned against them in turn. They carried with them the lingering odors of the city mingled with the scent of fallen snow.

Walter bent down, scooped his daughter into his arms. Her gangly legs wrapped around his waist and she hugged him as if afraid he might vanish. He promised himself then that he would never again leave her for so long a time. "Missed you."

"Missed ya, too," Danny muttered into his shoulder. She drew away only to give her mother an equally strong embrace. Chloe chuckled and kissed the girl on the cheek. Danny grinned, then a yawn stretched her mouth into a wide O, the excitement of their reunion having quickly worn off. It was well past the girl's normal bedtime.

Walter took her into his arms once again. "Let's get you back to bed."

"'Kay. G'night, Momma, Auntie."

"Good night, baby." Chloe smiled tiredly.

Walter carried his precious burden up the stairs and into her room. It had been a long time since he tucked her in, and he experienced a stab of nostalgia as he lowered her onto the mattress and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

"TV says a book 'bout you's comin' out," she murmured sleepily.

Walter nodded. "Someone gave me a copy."

She blinked up at her father, her expression almost somber in the dim light of her bedside lamp. "Can I read it someday?"

Walter thought about all the years he kept his past a secret, hoping to protect his daughter from the darkness that once enveloped his life. Looking at her now, after all that happened, he realized she was stronger than he once believed. Her innocence remained intact, despite Veidt's attack and all the terrible things she learned about the man her father used to be. So he nodded. "Someday."

Danny smiled. "Will ya be here tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow and everyday," he promised, then bent down to plant a kiss on her youthful brow. "I love you, Danielle."

"Love you, Daddy." She snuggled into her covers as her father switched off the lamp and quietly exited her room, both of them smiling in contentment.


	23. Guilty

**A/N:** Needless to say, the referenced dialog was taken from the graphic novel, though the events described are a mixture of the GN and the movie.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

The book was a bestseller. The fact that Hector Godfrey and Douglas Roth, lifelong enemies in the news industry, collaborated on it together added a great deal of verisimilitude to the book's contents. Soon men of authority approached the partnered newsmen requesting to see the original journal. Godfrey, who still kept the slim volume in his care, reluctantly turned it over; mainly because he hoped it might help in bringing Veidt to justice for the atrocity he committed ten years ago. The handwriting was analyzed, fingerprints lifted from the pages compared to those kept on file, and the journal's authenticity was soon verified.

But what of the information written within? Was there any truth to it, or was it all simply the ramblings of a paranoid mind? Mere months ago, no one would have bothered to ask such a question, as Veidt's character was beyond reproach. But in light of his violent attack of the Charleson family and subsequent guilty plea, no one knew what to think.

People demanded an investigation, and the authorities were happy to comply, in spite of their fear of what they might find. Warrants were issued. Veidt's penthouse and numerous businesses were searched, but they had yet to figure out a way to reach his Antarctic retreat. The fact that Veidt's attorney argued the ice-bound continent was well outside their jurisdiction made the process that much slower.

Throughout it all, the media kept the public informed.

The computer interface named Thoth listened to the world. Though its electronic brain was housed deep beneath the Antarctic palace of Karnak, eyeless, earless, it was far from isolated. Most of the communication and network satellites orbiting the earth had at least a few components provided by Veidt Technologies, and Thoth had access to every one of them. It trolled the multimedia waters, waiting for the appropriate key phrases, the right indicators for it to begin the next phase of its master's last command. As the first reports of the investigation into Veidt's alleged involvement in the All Souls Day massacre poured in, the computer knew the time had come.

"We shall let fate decide," Veidt said the day he phoned from his prison cell. Thoth possessed little understanding of "fate," but it understood circumstances to which a command would dictate a certain response. So the obedient machine set out to betray its master.

There were records hidden deep within Karnak's powerful mainframe, kept safe and secret for many years. Thoth gathered those records, copied them into several information packets, and sent them out via those same communication satellites it had previously monitored. In an instant, every news station and publisher, as well as numerous government officials and law enforcement centers around the world, received an anonymous email.

In Washington DC, Senator Dole logged on to his computer and checked his inbox. There were the usual proposals from various organizations, correspondence from fellow Senators, and more than a few messages from various nut jobs that managed to sneak past his security filter. One in particular caught his eye, if only because it lacked anything ostentatious. The subject line simply read: _Watch Me._ His curiosity piqued, Dole opened the email and found it to contain nothing but an attachment labeled _Icarus_. Interesting choice of title. Icarus, who ignored his father's warning and flew too close to the sun, melting his wax and feather wings and plummeting into the sea. A lesson in hubris, or so Dole always thought. Which meant…what? Was this some sort of prank? If he opened the attachment, would it unleash some kind of weird new virus? The computer's virus protection program said it scanned clean, but that was hardly a certainty. Then again, maybe the message itself was the danger. Had he done anything lately to warrant blackmail? Dole snorted to himself. He was a politician, for god's sake. Of course he'd done something. All those in his profession had; it was practically a requirement.

"Hell with it." He opened the file.

And experienced a shock shared by thousands of other recipients worldwide.

* * *

"Hi there!"

Walter smiled at his wife's playful tone as she trotted up the walkway from her car and planted a kiss on his lips. The armload of firewood he carried made it a bit awkward, but Chloe was nothing if not persistent. The near-euphoria they experienced from their turn of fortune at Veidt's trial continued to linger between them. With all the attention focused on Veidt, interest in Walter's past became almost nonexistent. He and his family were safe from the threat of separation. For the time being. But Walter refused to dwell on this; for once he shoved aside his natural pessimism and chose to focus on the positive. He was home, he was with his wife and daughter and aunt-in-law, and there were no reporters anywhere in Jubilation. Smiling, he mounted the porch steps, Chloe at his side, and the two of them escaped the late winter cold for the warm confines of the house.

Walter stowed the firewood in the wood box before removing his coat and hanging it alongside Chloe's. His wife sauntered ahead of him into the living room, calling a greeting to the rest of the household. Danny was sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the TV channels with the remote, eyes glazed in boredom. Everywhere she looked the news was on. Boring. Chloe sat down beside her and gently took the remote from her daughter's grip. "Finish all your homework?"

"Yeah." Danny rearranged her limbs to a more comfortable sprawl. Her legs had taken on a long, coltish appearance the last few months. Chloe felt a pang at the sight; her little girl was growing up right before her eyes.

From the kitchen came the sound of the phone ringing. "I'll get it!" Elsie chimed. The ringing ceased, replaced with soft murmurs. Chloe was about to turn the TV off when Elsie hung up and hurried into the living room. "Wait," she said, voice oddly tense, "Deb just called. Put it to the news."

With a shrug, Chloe complied. A middle-aged man with plastic-perfect hair gazed out from the screen with an expression of mingled excitement and somberness that immediately grabbed everyone's attention. Walter drifted in and sat beside his wife. Elsie took one of the chairs. Danny straightened in her seat. All eyes were riveted to the screen.

_"For those of you just tuning in,"_ the news anchor began, _"We are about to show you shocking footage submitted by an anonymous source. This video was received by media representatives and political leaders worldwide approximately two hours ago. What we are about to show you contains disturbing images and should not be viewed by children."_

Danny wondered if she would be sent to her room. She glanced at her parents, but neither of them looked her way, too absorbed by what appeared on the television. Walter stiffened. Chloe gasped. Danny's eyes quickly shifted back to the screen. Her eyes widened.

The footage was in black and white, from a high angle, which indicated it came from a security camera. It showed a wide, palatial room with Egyptian-style sculptures scattered throughout. Three figures stood in the center of the image. Their identities were unmistakeable: Nite Owl, Rorschach, and Ozymandias, all in full costume. In the lower right corner of the screen was a date, followed by scrolling numbers measuring the time. The date was November 1, 1985.

Ozymandias stood facing a wall of TV screens, each depicting a different channel from various nations and countries. Rorschach and Nite Owl crept towards him, so stealthily Danny thought the video was without sound at first. But then Veidt whirled and attacked with vicious speed. She could hear every impact, every grunt of pain. Danny flinched as she watched the image of her father knocked down. When both of his adversaries lay groaning, Ozymandias stood with his hands behind his back, not even breathing hard, and said with prim politeness, _"Gentlemen. What can I do for you?"_

Nite Owl rose to his knees, wiped the blood that streamed from his nose. _"Dammit, you _know_ what this is about! Pyramid Deliveries are behind this whole mess, and _you're_ behind Pyramid! Christ, Adrian. What are you trying to do?"_

And Veidt told them. Throughout his long monologue the other two masks tried to get the drop on him, with the same lack of success as before. Danny remembered how fast Veidt was when he attacked her family, but it was nothing compared to what she saw in this decade-old footage. His swiftness and strength was inhuman.

_"Unable to unite the world by conquest…Alexander's method…I would _trick_ it; frighten it towards salvation with history's greatest practical joke,"_ Veidt continued conversationally, _"That's what upset the Comedian when awareness of my scheme crashed in upon him: professional jealousy."_

Rorschach pointed an accusing finger at him. _"Blake's murder. You confess?"_

_"Confession implies penitence,"_ the former superhero replied coldly, _"I merely regret his accidental involvement."_

The more he told, the less Nite Owl wanted to believe. And who could blame him? _"Your serious?"_

_"Perfectly,"_ Veidt smiled, _"An intractable problem can only be resolved by stepping beyond conventional solutions. Alexander understood that, two thousand years ago, in Gordium. Blake understood, too. He _knew_ my plan would succeed, though its scale terrified him. That's why he told nobody. It was too big to discuss… But he understood. At the end, he understood."_

Then he told them of his terrible plan to use Dr. Manhattan's newest technology to create and teleport energy bombs to the major cities of the world, killing fifteen million people and framing the superhero in the process. As she heard Ozymandias recite the names of some of his targets—New York, Los Angeles, Berlin, Moscow, just to name a few—Danny felt her blood run cold. All the names in her history book; all the places left irrevocably scarred.

The two masks vowed to stop him; they didn't realize they were already too late.

_"Do you seriously think I'd explain my master stroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting its outcome?"_ Veidt quietly scoffed, then declared in his most chilling voice yet _"I did it thirty-five minutes ago."_

Danny heard a sigh and tore her gaze from the screen to see her father, eyes closed and head lowered, visibly fighting tears at the memory of his failure to save so many. Chloe took his hand, offering wordless comfort. Walter squeezed her hand and forced his eyes to open, to see this through.

The recording didn't end there. It continued with the arrival of Dr. Manhattan and Silk Spectre, and the surreal fight that ensued. Danny fought the impulse to shout angrily as Veidt succeeded in convincing them all to keep silent over what they knew. All but one.

_"Rorschach, wait!"_ Nite Owl called after the retreating figure, _"This is too big to be hard-assed about! We have to compromise…"_

_"No,"_ Rorschach rasped, not bothering to turn around, _"Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never compromise."_ He vanished through the door.

Looks between Veidt and Dr. Manhattan were exchanged. Nite Owl saw this and growled, _"Don't even think about it."_ He ran after his former partner.

The picture shifted to the point of view of another camera. Through the icy wasteland a lone trench-coated figure strode. Suddenly, Dr. Manhattan appeared, naked, impervious to the cold. _"Where are you going?"_

Rorschach answered without halting his stride, _"Back to Owlship. Back to America. Evil must be punished. People must be told."_

_"Rorschach,"_ Dr. Manhattan extended his arm, _"You know I can't let you do that."_

Now Rorschach stopped. He faced the strange blue man, removed his hat and peeled off his mask. Danny's breath caught at the sight of her father; younger, bruised and bleeding, but unmistakeably her dad. Copious tears ran from his eyes and down his battered face, freezing in the cold. Yet his voice remained steady, for the moment. _"Of course. Must protect Veidt's new utopia. One more body amongst foundations makes little difference."_

He stood before his executioner. His chin began to tremble, his stoicism cracked. Danny's own eyes stung in sympathy.

_"Well? What are you waiting for?"_ The next words sounded almost like a plea. _"Do it."_

Dr. Manhattan hesitated. This only seemed to enrage the doomed superhero. Fists bunched and eyes streaming, Rorschach screamed, _**"DO IT!"**_

The slightest gesture, and he was gone in a burst of light and crimson. The news program's censors blotted out the worst of it, but Danny did not see this. Her father had moved to block her view of the TV. Kneeling before her, he tenderly cradled her small face in his hands, wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Danny smiled. "I'm okay, Dad."

"I know." Walter smiled in turn, his expression more peaceful than his daughter ever remembered seeing before.

Chloe and Elsie wiped their tears away, heartbroken by Rorschach's death even as they felt gratitude towards Dr. Manhattan for saving Walter. The entire family knew now that the remaining danger of discovery was finally eliminated; none would doubt that Rorschach was dead and gone in light of this footage.

On the screen, Nite Owl, who'd witnessed it all from the open doorway, fell to his knees with an anguished cry. Ten years later, in his living room, Walter embraced his family in tearful relief.

* * *

In New York, another family nearly jumped from their skins when the phone suddenly rang. Daniel snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

_"Did you see it?"_ Walter's voice emitted through the earpiece.

Dan heaved a sigh, a mix of relief and utter amazement. "Yeah! Can you believe it? What in God's name possessed him?"

_"So you agree this was Veidt's doing."_

Dan snorted, "Who else could it be?"

"Is that Walter?" Laurie asked. Her husband nodded.

"Hang on a sec, Walter. I'm gonna put you on speaker phone." He pressed the appropriate button, replaced the receiver in its cradle. "Still there?"

_"Yes."_

"Why would Veidt do this?" Mona spoke up, her arm around a wide-eyed Wally.

Laurie shook her head. "Fessing up at the trial was one thing, but _this_… I'm getting a headache just trying to wrap my mind around it. I mean, he was always so positive the world would collapse if the truth ever got out."

_"I think the guilt weighed on him more than any of us knew."_

"So, what, he hears about the book and just decides to confirm it?" Daniel frowned, "I don't get it."

"He didn't really admit anything," Mona pointed out, "The news said the footage was from an anonymous source."

"It's like he's setting himself up." Laurie barked an ironic laugh. "He always had to have some convoluted plan. Couldn't just come out and _say_ it."

"What's gonna happen now?" Wally asked in an almost timid voice.

The adults all shrugged. Walter probably did the same from the opposite end of the phone.

"There's definitely going to be another trial," Dan speculated, "The biggest in history, I'll bet. As for the rest of the world…" He shrugged again.

"You don't think things'll go back to the way they were before, do you?" Laurie asked, brow furrowed with worry.

To everyone's surprise, Walter denied it. _"World's had plenty of time to catch its breath, see things more calmly. The Accord helped the different nations learn to put aside their differences. Might not last, but I don't think it will be as bad as before. Not without Dr. Manhattan here to frighten the Russians into overcompensating with more weapons."_

"We're all on equal footing now," Daniel agreed.

"I hope so," Laurie sighed.

"All we can do is wait and see," said Dan, "and hope for the best."

* * *

_I did do the right thing, didn't I? It all worked out in the end._ The words he'd asked Jon before he left Earth for the last time. But the only response he got was that nothing ever ends. Veidt hadn't understood then. He wasn't certain he understood even now. The smartest man in the world. Adrian's mouth quirked in an ironic grimace.

He sat in the lotus position on his cell's cot. By all outward appearances, he was meditating. In truth, his mind was far too troubled to exercise such discipline. _I would count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I had bad dreams,_ to paraphrase Shakespeare. He mentioned those dreams to Jon, when he allowed his doubts and guilt to shine through for a brief, vulnerable moment. Strange how their roles had reversed within a matter of minutes. Dr. Manhattan was at peace with himself, while Ozymandias felt himself haunted by the ghosts of fifteen million murdered innocents. Would there ever be a punishment severe enough for such a heinous crime? Adrian doubted it, but he was willing to face whatever judgment the world passed on him in hopes of some small measure of penance.

They all knew of his betrayal. Not even Silva would speak to him now. Veidt almost missed the corrections officer's snide insults. Charles Vanderberg came by a few hours ago to tender his resignation; he could not stomach having a mass-murderer as a client. Even the most expensive defense attorney had his limits, it seemed. No matter. Veidt had no intention of defending himself. His goal was achieved; the world was safe from the nuclear catastrophe it so nearly brought upon itself. The Accord succeeded in unifying the most powerful nations of the world. They would remain unified in condemning Veidt for his crimes against them all. He was ready to face the consequences of his actions, in the name of peace.

_I did do the right thing._ But the cost. The terrible cost.

* * *

The trial was held in Geneva, Switzerland. Many compared it to the war-crimes trials in Nuremberg at the end of World War II, though that historic event could not compare to the scale of the current legal proceedings. A single man was guilty of murdering more than twice as many innocents as the Nazis. None was in doubt of the verdict. The issue was his punishment. The Soviets wanted Veidt executed; the slower and more painful, the better. The United States wanted him exiled for the remainder of his life in an inhospitable land, such as Antarctica, though without the luxuries of Karnak. The other wronged nations were more or less evenly divided between the two options. It would take many long months of argument and debate before they all reached a decision.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., other changes were taking place. Public opinion regarding masked vigilantes took a sharp turn; no longer viewed as menaces, the people began to voice the opinion that their activities should no longer be illegal. The Keene Act was soon repealed. Superheroes could practice their crime-fighting activities, provided they cooperated with local law enforcement. In many states, masked adventurers became official members of the police force, known as "masked operatives."

During a visit to Jubilation, Dan and Laurie received many congratulations from their friends.

"Should make your lives a heck of a lot easier," Elsie declared. The two families were gathered in the living room, lounging in the sofa and chairs, the kids sprawled on the floor.

The couple, seated together on the couch, shared a look. "Actually," Laurie smiled, "we've been talking about it and we've decided to retire."

Everyone but Walter gawped.

"Seriously?" Chloe exclaimed, "You're hanging up your capes _now_, when it's finally legal again?"

Daniel chuckled. "Ironic, isn't it? But the truth is, we've been thinking about it for quite a while. Face it, neither of us is getting any younger."

"We're ready," Laurie added. Her husband put his arm around her shoulders; she leaned against him with a smile.

Seated on the floor beside Danielle, Wally looked at his parents and grinned, glad that they made this decision. No more sleepless nights worrying for their safety. He would always be proud of their careers as masked adventurers, but he was grateful that it was over.

"What will you do now?" Walter asked.

Dan shifted uncomfortably. "Well, believe it or not, we've been talking about opening up a museum about the history of superheroes."

"No kiddin'!" Elsie raised her eyebrows, intrigued.

"Yeah," he blushed, much to his wife's amusement, "A-Actually, it was Mona that gave us the idea—"

The nanny laughed, held up both hands. "Hey, I just said it'd be a shame to let all those gadgets of his sit around in his lair collecting dust."

"I think it's a cool idea," Wally declared. Danny nodded enthusiastically, imagining what such a museum would look like. Would her school be able to take a field trip there? She sure hoped so.

Chloe grinned. "Well, when you get the place built, you can count me in for a visit."

Laurie chuckled. "Heck, we'll give you a lifetime pass!"

"Awesome!" Danny beamed excitedly, practically bouncing up and down with enthusiasm. "Will there be somethin' for Rorschach?"

Her namesake pursed his lips uncertainly, eyes drawn to Walter. The redhead gave the faintest nod. He had come to terms with Rorschach's ghost. Having a museum display dedicated to the vigilante seemed appropriate; it would serve to reinforce the fact that it was all in the past.

Daniel grinned. "We'll have a whole _wing_ dedicated to him."

"Let's not go overboard," Laurie chided.

While they chatted on about their plans for the future, Chloe rose from her seat and moved to her husband in his chair. He took her outstretched hand. She lowered herself onto his knee, brought her face close to his. "It's so weird, how everything's changing."

Walter smiled. "Things changed ever since I met you."

"But that was just us. Now its everything." She swallowed. "It's kind of scary."

"Yes. But also good."

She laughed quietly. "Such an optimist. How'd that happen?"

He shrugged, eyes twinkling with something like mischief. "Suppose you're right; it's contagious."

Chloe slowly lowered her forehead to rest against his. "It's scary and exciting. Who knows what's gonna happen next?"

_Maybe Jon?_ Walter wondered for a moment if, should the blue man suddenly appear, he would dare to ask him what the future held. He considered it for barely a second, then dismissed it. Good or bad, knowing would not change it. Knowing would most likely only bring him pain. Walter had enough with pain. What would be would be. He would try to approach the future with a brighter outlook. Who knew? He might not be disappointed.

Danny and Wally got into a mock argument over something and started wrestling, a rolling mass of gangly limbs and screeching laughter. The adults looked on with amusement, happy with the present, and hopeful for the future.


	24. Nothing Ever Ends

**A/N:** I had a tough time with this final chapter. I ended up rewriting most of it after a couple of days' typing, but I'm pretty satisfied with the end result. I always feel a little melancholy when I finish a multi-chapter story, but the way things have been going, I'll probably end up starting another pretty soon. Who knows where my imagination will take me?

Once again, I've referenced the graphic novel for the beginning dialog between Jon and Veidt. Yep, I brought Dr. Manhattan into the story. I came up with the idea a little more than halfway through the story, but couldn't think of a way to fit him in until now. Sorry for all you Manhattan fans that there isn't more of him in here, but there's always the possibility of future stories for him.

Thanks again for all your great reviews!

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

_Nothing ever ends. It only changes._

_It is 1985. The fog of tachyons is finally clearing. After a few precious moments of linear existence, I am once again a man of all times._

_I am in Veidt's orrery. He sits in the lotus position upon a raised plinth pretending to meditate while a model of the solar system turns within its glass dome. The little planets follow their predetermined orbits, unconcerned with the tragedy that has occurred throughout the world._

_"Hello, Jon," Adrian says without turning to face me, "I was hoping we'd have the chance to talk."_

_I make no response. I walk around him, circle to the opposite side of the model. Veidt's eyes remain closed, his expression blank in a way that many would mistake for serenity. He continues to talk, while I simply listen. "Jon…I know people think me callous, but I've made myself _feel_ every death. By day I imagine endless faces. By night…" his voice drifts off for a moment. He swallows, his adams apple traveling down his throat. "Well, I dream about swimming towards a hideous… No," he interrupts himself, "Never mind. It isn't significant. What's significant is that I _know_. I know I've struggled across the backs of murdered innocents to save humanity… But someone had to take the weight of that awful, necessary crime." His eyes crack open, and his next words hold a trace of desperation. "I'd hoped _you'd _understand, unlike Rorschach."_

_"You needn't consider Rorschach. I strongly doubt he'll reach civilization." A necessary lie. My next words are motivated as much by pity for the man who was once my friend as by honesty. "But yes, I understand, without condoning or condemning."_

_I watch the little worlds whirring around the sun in perfect, timeless order. My eyes are drawn to the blue and green planet, unique for all the miraculous life it contains and the chaos resulting from it. While on Mars, I believed life was overrated; an infestation on what would otherwise be a peaceful orb. Now…_

_Now I come to a decision. "Human affairs cannot be my concern. I'm leaving this galaxy for one less complicated." I do this for their sakes. My continued presence will only bring about more conflict. I should have left long before, but I ever possessed the choice._

_"But you'd regained interest in human life," Veidt says, surprised by my declaration, even though it plays into his illusion of my responsibility for the attacks._

_"Yes, I have." My eyes wander again to the model, to the living Earth. "I think perhaps I'll create some. Goodbye, Adrian."_

_"Jon, wait," he stands, one hand held out to forestall me, "Before you leave… I did the right thing, didn't I? It all worked out in the end."_

_I smile, at peace with myself even as the world reels from its wounds. "Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends."_

_While I say this, it is a thousand years later. On my new world, the first single-celled organisms form within a volcanic pool. Evolution accelerates under my careful manipulation, compressing millions of years of chance and selective breeding into mere millennia. Simple protozoa swarm the blue oceans. Plant life forms, encroaches on the shore. Multicellular organisms gradually become vertebrates. The first proto-amphibian crawls onto the beach and gasps with __newly formed lungs._

_I watch and nudge and influence and it is 1966. A very young girl looks at me and smiles. In 1985 all her smiles are gone. She storms out of our quarters at the Rockefeller Military Research Center as I always knew she would, leaving me alone._

_The universe moves while I am standing still._

_It is 1996. I stand on a hilltop and look down on a picturesque blue house. My friend stands beside me, purring. From me she has learned to reincorporate her cellular structure. Like me, she is blue and hairless. Her elongated ears curve up from her skull like stylized antennae. Her new state of being requires hardly any adjustment; she never concerned herself with the future, never dwelt on the past. For her, there has only ever been _now._ I try to learn from her example and let go of my human perceptions. They no longer apply to me._

_We remain unseen as a yellow school bus rumbles to a halt before the driveway and disgorges a single passenger, a brown-skinned, freckled girl with auburn hair and clear blue eyes. She runs to her father, who waits for her at the other end of the driveway._

_He is smiling at his daughter in 1996. Screaming at me in Antarctica's perpetual winter in 1985. Shaking my hand as we meet for the first time in 1966._

_The freckled girl chatters on about her day at school. Her existence is so tenuous. A single decision, my last true decision unfettered by knowledge of what will be, has resulted in her conception. A million million random factors, her parents meeting, loving, combining their distinctive genomes, to create her. The thermodynamic miracle._

_I wave my hand and teleport a weeping man safely across the planet. I wave my hand and life blooms on a distant world in a far-off galaxy. I move my hand to rest it atop my friend's furless head, and she purrs._

_Below us, lying on the porch, two dogs lift their heads and stare in our direction. My friend and I are safely clouded from normal sight, yet the animals sense us in other ways. The younger dog, a German shepherd, rises to his feet and trots down the porch steps. His ears are upright while his tail hangs limply, alert and wary. Soon he and the other will understand that we are not a threat and settle back down to their naps. For now they stare in our direction._

_The man who confronts me in the snow notices the dogs' scrutiny and turns his gaze towards the hilltop where my friend and I stand. Like the animals, he cannot see us. His instincts tell him we are here. The little girl, the miracle my actions helped create, follows her father's gaze and asks him what he sees._

_I smile._

_"Nothing." He turns away, his arm around his daughter, and the two of them continue to the waiting house._

* * *

"Will the accused please stand."

Adrian rose from his chair and faced the magistrates who represented the various countries and nations he'd wronged. He was impeccably dressed in one of his many tailored suits, wrists and ankles unhampered by cuffs or manacles. He stood alone, without representation.

The center magistrate, an aging man with a trace of a Welsh accent, addressed him. "Is there anything you wish to say before we pronounce sentencing?"

"I do, Your Honor." Veidt's cool gaze regarded the representatives of the world's justice systems who sat above him on a raised dais behind a long, curved table. Behind him he sensed the eyes of the thousands of spectators gathered in the massive courtroom as well as the hundreds of camera lenses wielded by the international media. It was safe to say he had the entire planet's undivided attention. "I do not ask for forgiveness," he intoned solemnly, "for I know my deeds are unforgivable. I ask only that you, all of you, try to understand why they were committed. Were it not for my actions, heinous though they were, none of you would be here today to justly condemn me. Countless millions of children and grandchildren would never have been born had I not averted the world's self-annihilation." A faint, sad smile traced a curve on his lips. "The world is unified in lasting peace. For me, that is well worth the terrible cost. Now you must judge me, as is only right."

The arena-like courtroom stirred and hummed with murmurs of those reacting to his quietly passionate speech. The elderly magistrate, by contrast, grew still as if hewn from marble. After a long pause, his thin lips parted to speak and all other voices silenced to hear his response.

"For my part, Mr. Veidt, I find your unapologetic rationalization far more chilling than ravening lunacy could ever be. A madman, at least, can be pitied, whereas you…" he shook his head in carefully understated disgust, "You say your crimes were necessary, which only tells me that you have absolutely no faith in humanity. You truly believe the world would have plunged itself into nuclear war. You forget, sir, that often times one must peer over the precipice in order for the fear of destruction to inspire a wiser course of action. You say those born since the bombings are countless, yet those who perished at your hands are clearly numbered. Fifteen million men, women, and children are dead. Fifteen million who should be alive today. No, Mr. Veidt, I do not understand. I have no desire to understand."

The magistrate straightened and continued in a more formal tone, "Adrian Veidt, you have been found guilty of mass murder. It is the decision of this court that you are to be executed for your crimes. The method of execution shall be hanging. The sentence shall be carried out twenty-four hours from this day. So be it." The gavel struck down, echoing through the eery silence which permeated the room.

Two armed guards stepped forward to escort their stoic prisoner from the courtroom while voices steadily rose, filling the air with a loud, meaningless buzz. He was taken to a plain room where he changed from his suit into a set of orange coveralls. Shackles were placed around his ankles and wrists and he was led from the room through a narrow hallway to a semi-concealed exit, then loaded into the back of an unmarked van with tinted windows and driven back to the heavily guarded prison where he'd spent the duration of the trial.

Night fell. Veidt sat in his dimly lit cell, his dinner untouched. Though no guards were in sight, he knew several security cameras were pointed his way. High-tech suicide watch. Wouldn't do for him to kill himself before his execution. Veidt smiled sardonically at the thought.

Resting in his hands was a copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_, a parting gift from Roberto Silva. The smarmy correction's officer was the only person whose behavior towards Veidt didn't change after the truth about the worldwide massacre was made known. Silva continued with the same snide remarks even as he brought more books to his prisoner. Veidt still wasn't sure how to feel about the man's seemingly contradictory behavior. It hardly mattered now. He flipped open the cover and tried to read, but his concentration wandered. In less than twenty-four hours he would die. Hanged; a barbaric method that hadn't been used in many years. It seemed appropriate, given the monstrousness of his crime. If anything, many were bound to argue that hanging was too kind.

Veidt gave up on reading and put the book aside. He leaned back in his cot, hands behind his head, and stared up at the cracked ceiling. After a long time passed, his eyelids grew heavier, their blinks slower to complete, until they remained altogether shut.

He expected the usual dream he'd had ever since he put his terrible plan into motion. Instead, something new occurred. In this dream, a pale blue glow seeped through his eyelids, prompting Veidt to open his eyes. He turned his head in time to see a figure step through the cement wall. Veidt sat up. "Jon."

"Hello, Adrian." The blue man smiled.

"Come to wish me a good death?"

Dr. Manhattan shook his head. "I brought someone who wanted to say goodbye." He moved aside to reveal his companion. Veidt gasped. Standing before him, healthy and whole, possessing the same ethereal blue glow as the man beside her, was a creature Veidt never expected to see again. She purred, the tip of her sinuous tail twitching slowly.

Adrian held out his arms, eyes welling with tears. "Bubastis."

The big cat approached her former master with fluid grace. She jumped up onto the cot and rested her head on Veidt's lap, her long ears laid back as dexterous hands stroked her. Her body vibrated in a contented purr which did not falter even when several wet drops pattered onto the crown of her head.

Jon smiled and quietly left the prison cell, his exit unnoticed by either the condemned man or the miraculous feline.

* * *

Unlike the majority of executions, Veidt's was televised on every major network (with plenty of parental warnings beforehand). Walter didn't watch. The idea of Veidt's impending death gave none of the satisfaction he might have experienced as Rorschach. Consequently, he and his family were ignorant of what transpired until several frantic phone calls from friends and neighbors filled them in, and subsequent news updates replayed the footage.

The gallows was erected in what appeared to be an old warehouse, bare fluorescent lights hanging from the rafters high above. The structure was only just cobbled together, still smelling of fresh-cut timber and sawdust. Adrian mounted the steps, dressed in prison denims, flanked by two stone-faced guards in anticipation of last-minute panic. He stood upon the platform, the noose dangling behind his head, and stared out at the modest crowd of witnesses, officials, and select members of the press. Where before his face was devoid of emotion, now there was a look to the condemned man that could only be described as peaceful acceptance.

"Do you have any final words?" someone asked. Veidt shook his head. His wrists were bound behind his back, a black hood pulled over his head, cutting off the sight of the judgmental faces staring at him. He did not so much as tremble when he felt the noose draped around his neck.

_Justice comes to all of us. How right you were, Comedian._ Beneath the hood, he closed his eyes. The second hand ticked down to his appointed time. He awaited his death without fear.

In many of the video recordings a clock or digital readout in the corner of the screen counted down to the moment when the lever releasing the trapdoor was pulled. For one brief fraction of a second Veidt's feet disappeared through the opening, the rope above him grew taut…and then a blinding blue flash flared on the screen, gone in an eyeblink, leaving behind an empty noose swinging from the wooden beam.

The family stared openmouthed at the television. Elsie finally broke the silence with, "What the hell just happened?" ignoring the news anchor chattering excitedly over what they just witnessed.

Chloe half expected her husband to go into a tirade. Instead, much to everyone's surprise, he started laughing. He doubled over, face reddening, tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks. It was all too ridiculous for words. After everything that happened, just when it seemed things might finally settle into some semblance of normalcy, Dr. Manhattan came back from his decade-long exile to whisk Veidt away from his own execution.

"B-But," Danny stammered, "where'd he go?"

Walter sat up, wiped his eyes, finally composed enough to speak. "Far away."

"Do you think he might come back?" Chloe asked with a trace of worry, "Try to pull some new scheme?"

Walter shook his head. "No. I think he's gone."

Danny stared at her father, confused and growing increasingly upset. "Why aren't you angry?" She rose from her seat as if to confront him. "He tried t' hurt us. He killed all those people. He deserved t' die!"

Her dad took her wrist in a gentle grip and drew her towards him. She reluctantly stepped closer, let him sit her down on his knee. "Being angry wouldn't make any difference," he said calmly, his arms around her, "He's gone. Everyone knows the truth. We're safe. That's all that matters."

Danny shook her head, eyes downcast. "'S not fair."

Nobody argued with that.

* * *

_He takes in his surroundings with astonished eyes. "W-What is this?"_

_"Your new home," I reply with a smile, arms spread to indicate the magnificent domed structure that surrounds us. Beyond the transparent barrier lies the airless, desolate realm that is to be my new world, filled with all the potential of future life._

_Adrian takes it all in: the massive glass-like dome filled with life-sustaining air, the grassy field, the clear stream, the modest house in the distance. He looks at me, and for once his face is completely open to me, revealing his confusion and sadness. "Why? Why did you save me?"_

_"I didn't." I point to his right. "She did."_

_He turns and is confronted with the sight of my friend, his former pet, lounging in the soft grass and purring in contentment. "Bubastis? You did this?"_

_She does not answer, only purrs louder. It is I who explains, "She teleported you. I knew she would, so I created this environment for you. It contains everything you will ever need to survive."_

_"But I can never leave," he concludes, calmer now as understanding dawns. "Instead of execution, I am to live in __exile."_

_"Yes."_

_He walks to the reclining feline, kneels on the grass to run an affectionate hand over her furless blue skin. "Why did you do this, girl?"_

_"Isn't it obvious, Adrian?" I smile, "Because she loves you."_

_Veidt meets my gaze. There is relief in his eyes, and gratitude._

_It is 1996, and Veidt is brought to live with us on our alien world. In 2025 he suffers a fatal heart attack. Instead of burial or cremation, I reduce his body to its component cells and use them as a basis for the formation of new life. Every living organism on this world will be able to trace its origins to his DNA. A man responsible for fifteen million deaths will help create countless billions of new lives. I think he might appreciate this._

_Adrian sits back on his heels, a thoughtful smile on his face. "My sudden disappearance must have caused quite a stir. No doubt there will be much speculation as to whether or not the two of us are collaborating on a new plan to influence the world."_

_"No doubt."_

_Bubastis tilts her head as Veidt scratches behind one long ear. "The leaders of all the world's nations will have to be on their toes in case I should return. They might even form a new Accord for this purpose." The idea does not displease him. He looks at me, a question in his eyes._

_I shake my head. I do not know what will happen back on Earth; I will not return for many centuries. Adrian will not return at all. He nods in acceptance. His gaze wanders over our surroundings. "This new prison is much improved from my previous accommodations."_

_"You may request whatever you like from me, if it is in my power to provide it."_

_He smiles. "There is one thing."_

_"Yes?"_

_"Could you furnish me with a copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_? I seem to have left my copy back on Earth."_

_I hold out my hand to offer him the book._

* * *

The Museum of Masked Heroes opened in the spring. Walter, Chloe, Danielle, and Elsie were among its first patrons. The place was soon crowded with mask enthusiasts, journalists and reporters, and curiosity seekers. There was a wing dedicated to the Minute Men, another to the Watchmen, and the third to the various supervillains of both eras. Many of the museums artifacts were originals donated by or purchased from various collectors. Costumes, masks, helmets, weapons, original photographs and newspaper articles carefully framed. Archie sat in a massive open room, his weapons systems and engines taken offline. People could climb into the Owlship, sit in its chairs, press the lighted buttons without fear of blowing something up. It was very popular with the kids.

"This is amazing," Chloe gushed, peering into a glass case displaying a replica of Rorschach's grappling gun. "I can't believe you managed to get your hands on so much stuff."

Dan smiled modestly. "It wasn't easy. You wouldn't believe how many people were trying to pass knockoffs as originals."

The two families drifted amiably through the crowded halls on an informal tour. More than a few people recognized them and asked for their photos and autographs. Walter was not at all comfortable with that, even though everyone _knew_ he was only Hiram Charleson and not the officially deceased Rorschach. He would have refused their requests altogether, except Danny looked so proud to have her dad as the center of attention and his protests died in his throat. So he grudgingly stood with Dan and Laurie while overexcited men and women blinded them with their camera flashes and thrust sheaves of scrap paper at them to scribble their signatures on. It didn't help that Chloe and Elsie were greatly amused by his obvious discomfort.

"Let's just hope fame doesn't go to his head," Elsie remarked, "Next thing you know, he'll be doin' cereal commercials."

Chloe grinned evilly and said in a poor imitation of her husband's growl, "Remember, kids, eat Kellogg's Rice Crispies. They really pack a punch."

Dan and Laurie burst into laughter. Walter scowled at his grinning wife.

They reached the junction where the two superhero wings met. The small lobby was dominated by two side-by-side murals, enlarged images of the group photos of the Minute Men and the Watchmen. Danny and Wally wandered over to the latter, stared at the images of their parents who were so much younger and naïve in their convictions. The adults soon joined them and all fell silent as they stared across the decades.

"We really thought we could make the world a better place," Dan said wistfully.

"Except for the Comedian," Laurie added, her feelings for the man she learned to be her father still filled with ambivalence years later. "He never had any illusions about what we did. Maybe that's why he was so miserable."

Wally stared at the image of the older man with the domino mask and sarcastic grin. His grandfather. In spite of all the things he heard about the Comedian, the brutality he inflicted on others, the boy couldn't help but wish he had the chance to meet him, if only to better understand his mother's feelings. There she was, her long hair tied back in a ponytail, uncomfortably unfamiliar with her Silk Spectre costume. Sixteen years old. She looked like a little girl beside all those older, more experienced masks. All of them blissfully unaware of the paths their lives would lead down, and where they would end. Except, the boy realized in a strange flash of clarity, it didn't end. It would never end. Their paths continued, twisting and changing over the years, and when they could no longer travel them he and Danny would continue, and their kids after them, forever.

"Hey, kiddo," Laurie tapped her son on the shoulder, "You look like your mind's off in the stratosphere."

Wally shook himself, grinned sheepishly. "Just thinkin' about stuff."

His mother quirked an eyebrow. "Anything interesting?"

"Nah."

Laurie smiled, mussed the boy's hair. "C'mon. Let's follow the others to the supervillans' wing."

"Cool!" He trotted eagerly after the others, all thoughts on past and future quickly forgotten. There was only now, with his family and his friends, and the possibility of viewing the bits and pieces of lives far stranger than his own.

Laurie walked hand-in-hand with Daniel. Walter put his arm around Chloe's waist, his other arm linked companionably with Elsie's. Danny and Wally trotted ahead to look at a life-sized wax figure of Moloch in full regalia, nudging each other playfully.

The world continued.

_"People's lives take them strange places." —Laurie (Watchmen)_


End file.
